Winter, discontented
by SixGear Turbo
Summary: After the dust of the events of GTAV settles, and of Shaun Harvey's stories, Sergeant Winter Coleman leaves the United States Army for a new life as a civilian
1. Chapter 1

SGT COLEMAN, Winter. D.O.B. 08/28/1988

October 2014.

Have you ever felt everything crumble and fall apart? I'm not just talking about masonry or vehicles, that's a regular occurrence taking fire from insurgents in the middle East. I'm talking about your whole f***ing _world_.

Until 2006 when I turned 18, my entire life revolved around making sure I was ready to be a soldier in the United States Army. It's what my Dad did so it was always what _I_ was going to do, no ifs ands or buts. Failure wasn't an option. I wanted to be a Marine, but my Dad had some pretty strong views about that. Strong _homophobic_ views.

I was proud that he saw me pass out as a soldier, Private Coleman, Winter. Proud to be deployed in service of my country, despite how ill-advised the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan turned out to be. I served 96 months, eight years, the full minimum term. I made paygrade E2 in 7 months, Private 1st Class in 13. 21 months in they made me a Corporal and at 53 months I made Sergeant. I was hoping to make Sergeant First Class before I left, but it wasn't to be. No matter. Despite my gender I had matched my father.

I chose not to stay on further because I wasn't fighting for my country anymore. For the last 36 months, three whole years, my unit was on American soil on standby. Waiting. Wasting.

He made me promise on the day of my deployment that I would serve my term and not return home until that, at least, was completed. I knew I would miss him terribly. Worried how he would be without me, for we had no friends or neighbours or other companions. I wrote him every week, sometimes twice.

Now, as I return home to the off-grid ranch house at the foot of Mount Chiliad, I find all those letters piled up under the mailslot, barring the door so I have to force it open with my shoulder. That's when I see my Dad was inside, where he's been sat motionless since the day I'd left, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot with the .45 he'd carried all those years.

All those letters I'd written him and in return he'd left just the one for me.

He never let on that he'd have preferred a son, and he never gave any indication that he blamed me for my mother's death in childbirth. The knowledge of all he'd endured before he could let me go alone into my life so that he could finally end his hit me like a mortar shell and everything – _everything_ – fell apart.

How long was I lost? I have no way of knowing. The whole time I'd served, I'd left my salary almost untouched, had only a hundred bucks in cash on me. I'd used a lot of it on the bus ride home, spent the rest of it on a crate of beer that I'd intended to share with my Dad. I downed two while filling the dry-stored Imponte under the tarp in the barn with coolant, oil, brake and steering fluid and gasoline and then I drank my way through the rest as I drove, fast and aimless, until everything faded to black.

I woke up needing to vomit, kicked the driver's door open to lean out and let go. Only then did I get to wondering where I was. , I found I'd crashed through a fence on a winding hill road into a field. My Dad had built the Imponte for survival in the harshest environments so its heavily armoured body and matt-black paint were barely scratched from the impact.

The last time I'd hurt like this it was shellshock from an IED but that had passed a lot more quickly once we came under fire and mobilised ourselves to fight back. The alcohol makes me sick and keeps me sick for a while, so it's some time before I got to wondering where I was. Looking up through the windshield, having to use an arm to protect my tender eyes from the burning sunlight, I found that I'd crashed though a fence on a winding hillside road and come to a stop in a field. Raising my gaze even further, I found myself staring down at the corrupted heart, the polluted homeland of unregulated capitalism; the city of Los Santos.

* * *

I didn't go to any liberal institutional school. My classroom was the wilds of Northern San Andreas, my lessons survival, homesteading, defence and endurance. My Dad taught me to hunt, camouflage, and to fight with bare hands as well as with bladed and projectile weapons. I was home-schooled math and the dangers of materialistic capitalism, trained to live on what I could gather and to be self-sufficient rather than relying on society to provide for me.

I've spent hours with only what I could fit in the pockets of my cargo pants and MOLLE vest in extreme heat, extreme cold, rain, wind, snow, lightning. I've hunted and been hunted, days spent covering my tracks and hiding my trail, drinking only what water I could filter or distil, eating only what I could forage or kill. My Dad had a clean, comfortable house on a ranch but as far back as I can remember, I spent barely a dozen nights in it.

Sometimes we'd drive in my Dad's Imponte down to Los Santos to watch America rotting from within, see the citizenship blinded and enslaved by unending consumerist excess. One time when I was fourteen I watched three men steal a woman's purse in a dark alley. They didn't know my Dad and I were there because we were camouflaged pretty good. My Dad sent me to retrieve it but I had to leave my gear. I wasn't in any real danger, he was watching with a silenced .45 and night-vision goggles, but it was a good test. I got to feel _real_ pain from men that wouldn't hold back for the first time.

One of 'em caught me from the side while I was distracted and got my nose pretty good. I got chastised for losing track of him 'cos I was obsessing on the guy with the knife, who I identified as the primary threat, but my Dad went easy on me because I used that knife to cut the tattoo off the arm of its owner and then I used it to kill him and the one that had hit me. The third guy tried to run away and my Dad raised the .45, getting ready to end it himself but I hadn't gone _that_ far to fail now – I pounced on his back and choked him out, holding on even though he tried to pound me into a wall until he collapsed on top of me. Then we returned the purse to the lady and my Dad told her how stupid she'd been, wasting her money on bags and high heeled shoes instead of buying a gun and learning to protect herself.

After that we went home and I got to cook a squirrel for supper. Not quite the chicken I'd been hoping for – getting my nose hit and my back bruised meant I'd fallen short of earning that – but it was better than rat. Better, my Dad had said, than being a rat in this unending, nightmare maze.

* * *

I'd been expecting to modestly enjoy some of my Military salary, waiting for me in an account I'd had to set up just so they could pay me, and to starting a job with the private military contractor Merryweather. Their US base of operations was down here somewhere in this traffic-choked melting pot. Before leaving the Army I'd bought a house, a modest little one bedroom on Sustancia Road in the Palomino Highlands. Its seller, a twitchy kind of a guy called Shaun Harvey, had wanted a hundred and sixty grand for it, but we'd settled on a hundred and forty three. When I felt strong enough, I got back in the car, carefully drove my way down to the city and found a gas station to refill the tank and get some directions.

The house had a battered old RV parked on the driveway with an equally battered Sanchez trail bike mounted on the back of it. When I rang the doorbell, Harvey answered the door, skinny in a white vest top and black pants, barefoot. Small arms but with some definition to his muscles. He greeted me with some surprise. "Sergeant Coleman!"

"Hi," I greeted him, a little bit sheepishly, before reminding myself who I was. "I need to move in sooner than I thought."

Harvey's mouth opened but it was a second before he found any words with it. "The money's still in escroe," he complained. "The place is still chaos, I wasn't expecting you for another couple of weeks."

I wondered how to play it but a quick read of him answered that question. "I have nowhere else to go," I said quietly, looked down, then away. That wasn't strictly true, of course, I could just as easily have pitched a tent and unrolled a sleeping bag on the lawn, but he didn't have to know that and anyway, I immediately got the desired effect as he started scratching the back of his shaved head.

"Sh*t… Alright, listen, come in," he said. "Excuse the mess. I'm still, er… I'm still finishing up."

I followed him over the threshold into the house. There was no furniture, save for a folding camping bed in the bedroom. A white sheet covered the floor in the living room and some cans of paint were stacked in the corner. He'd done a pretty nice job of making it invitingly blank to be honest, light neutral tones that were at once familiar and yet infinitely more homely than any barracks in the army, or my Dad's old house. He's starting to point out empty areas where he used to have his kitchen, dining room, sofa. Something he refers to as a TV. I've seen TV's at the barracks, small square screens with a large protruding rear end that scores of men and women sat around watching, mesmerised, yelling at some ball game or watching some Vinewood moving picture with a strange intensity. The thought that people would have them in their homes seems alien and unsettling.

"I was going to, um… say goodbye to the place," Harvey says. "You know?"

"Sure, I guess," I say, because I'm not really sure what kind of response he's looking for, nor really what the hell he means.

"Uh, have you got a bed or anything? I mean, I can sleep in the RV, but I'm gonna need my camping bed, and I'm still gonna need access to the house to finish up and use the bathroom…"

"That's fine," I say, eager to get him out of here. "I'll set up my sleeping bag in the bedroom. I warn you now though I'll be sleeping with my gear."

"No no, that's fine," he interrupts hurriedly. "Just, when you're awake, just knock twice on the door of the RV, so I know I'm clear."

"Alright. That'll work," I acknowledge, then remember to add "thanks."

We stand in an awkward silence for a few seconds. "So you're out now," he finally says.

"Yeah," I say, no less awkwardly.

"Not gonna change into civvies," he asks, meaning civilian clothes. I look down at myself, still wearing the woodland camouflaged pants, jacket and olive shirt I'd left the barracks in. "I, uh, don't have any yet."

"Oh," he replies. "Well, I, uh…"

He stands there for a couple more seconds trying to figure out how to end the sentence but then, finally, he shrugs and leaves so that I can go into the bedroom and set down my backpack to unpack.

Half an hour later I have to knock on the door of his RV because otherwise I'm just gonna sit in my room field-stripping and reassembling my pistol for a fourth time.

"Do you wanna coffee," I ask.

"Sure," he replies, and I lead him back into the house, fill my metal canteen with water from the bathroom sink and start unpacking my gas stove and cylinder. He takes them from me and sets them up, then puts the canteen over the flame to boil the water.

"Did you ever serve," I ask, noting his competency with the equipment.

"No," he replies. "I, er, spent a while living in the RV, so…"

"Okay," I reply as I tear open a couple of coffee sachets and add them to the hot water. We sit in silence while the coffee brews, then I serve him a portion into a filthy chipped mug he offers, pour myself the rest into the metal cup from my gear.

"So what are you going to do now you're a civilian," he asks me.

"An old contact of mine invited me to come see him at Merryweather if I ever got out," I say.

"Oh," he says and looks down into his coffee. "When was that?"

"A couple years back. Why," I demand, sensing bad news.

"They... kind of lost their domestic license last year."

* * *

Its ridiculously hot in the middle of the city even at this time of year, so I leave my jacket in the passenger seat of the Imponte and get out at the gates of where Harvey told me I'd find Merryweather's Los Santos base in an industrial rat warren of broken streets and warehouses. Theirs is a particularly big place and it's empty, save for some abandoned steel girders and a boat in an advanced state of neglect. I explore every inch of the place, front to back and upstairs, but there's not a soul about.

I feel again the unfamiliar constriction in my throat, a general sense of emptiness that I'd felt when I found my Dad's corpse and I sit down on the floor, overcome by crying. When have I ever cried before?

Not since I was very young, alone and failing to throw him off my trail in the desert. It had been four days. I was hungry, thirsty, exhausted. Strength was ebbing away, leaving my body. Failure would bring more discomfort, an inverted suspension from which I would have to escape in order to avoid further torment, just like if real hunters caught me to do the terrible things men do to young girls they catch in the middle of nowhere. Of course, I didn't know at that point that I'd already passed the test, I'd reached an area of civilisation. Of course, I'd ignored it, kept out of their sight like I naturally did, but when he finally found me, my father said that since I'd gotten there, I could have gotten help. That since that point he'd been trying to retrieve me to feed me and rehydrate me. When he carried me into my bedroom and tucked me into the bed that night, while I was too tired to do anything but cling to him, hanging from his arms like a rag doll, it had been too much and I'd cried all night until I blacked out.

The memory dissipates rapidly; something has caught my attention. I hold my breath and listen, but I can't really hear anything, nor can I see movement anywhere around me. I can't explain it, but I'm definitely on alert. I draw my service pistol and, keeping myself as covered as possible, slowly make my way back towards the Imponte.

There's an envelope tucked under one of the windshield wipers. It contains a cellphone that rings as soon as I unpack it and the voice of my contact says "welcome home Sergeant Coleman. You wanna go get a beer?"

* * *

I never knew his name. Most of us only ever knew him by his call-sign, Inquisitor, and by his Squadron number 253. The bar he's picked is an out of the way watering hole in the desert, just outside the trailer town of Sandy Shores. I've not seen him in three years, not corresponded with him for maybe two, when he emailed me Merryweather's info and told me if I get out of the Army I should seek him there. He still has the thick ginger hair he'd sported in spite of the Military, has since grown scruffy facial hair and he's wearing jeans, a black T-shirt that's seen better days and a battered black leather jacket wih a thick horizontal gray stripe and an off-red pinstripe above it, and he's sitting at the bar on a stool.

"Good afternoon Sergeant," he greets me before turning back to the woman behind the bar who I can only describe as rustic. "Get her a Logger. It's on my tab."

The woman busies herself with filling a glass from a draught beer pump while I settle onto a stool next to him. "It's just 'Winter' now," I tell him. "I'm a civilian."

He's got a half full beer glass himself, raises it halfway towards his mouth. "Well, we'll see about that," he says and then drinks a deep swallow before setting the glass back on the bar, only now a quarter full. The woman sets a full glass in front of me wordlessly and then takes a cloth from where it's draped over her shoulder and busies herself with 'cleaning' the bar.

"I'm sorry about your Dad," he says.

"You went in my _house,_ " I demand, slightly annoyed at the invasion of my privacy.

He picks up the glass again. "I only nudged the door open. It's not a big place. I could see without stepping in." He finishes the beer, holds it out in front of him slightly for the bartender to take and refill. "I went to try and find you before you went down to the Merryweather place. Tried to save you the trip."

I pick up my own glass now and drink the first quarter off the top. Set it back down. "Yeah. Too bad I'm left without a job."

He shrugs. "Rumor is Don Percival is still petitioning the government for new wars and a new domestic license. They'll be back. In the meantime," he says and fishes in his pockets, brings out his own cellphone. I watch him press something on the screen and then I hear the one I found on my car make a "ping" noise, feel it vibrate in my pocket. I bring it out and the screen comes on to tell me a new app has been installed on it. "You know, _this_ was a nice touch," I say as I work the device.

"Ways and means, Sergeant," he starts.

"Winter," I correct, earning myself a scowl.

"You need to set up the biometric security on that thing," he continues. "Do that now. That way, if anybody gets the phone off you and tries to unlock it, the motherboard will cook itself."

I arch an eyebrow at him as I find the relevant menu settings on the thing. "What are you getting me into here," I ask.

He leans in and talks to me quietly now. "It's called SecuroServ. I don't know much about them, and I don't _wanna_ know, but for certain... _connected_ individuals it's a worldwide shadow logistics operation. One that can bring _significant_ financial rewards for assisting with getting stuff where it's going. Those certain, connected individuals need _muscle_ and that's where we come in."

I sigh, lean back, but I keep my voice low. "You mean it's a criminal network. That's contributing to the erosion of the country you and I _fought_ for," I reply. "Probably directly funding the people we fought _against_? The very people that attacked us, _on our own soil_ , on 9/11?"

"Don't be an idiot," he snaps quietly. "Do you think that attack went ahead without the government's _precise_ sanction? America has been trying to create this political climate since Gorbachev neutralised the Cold War. An escalating threat level is the _lifeblood_ of _Uncle Sam Incorporated_. Profits for the corporations that steer US policy go through the roof. We fund both sides to make _serious_ returns on that investment. We always have. _That's_ how America does it." He sits back and angrily gulps down half his fresh glass of beer.

"And what about the little people," I demand. "Increase the risk to them right on their own front doorstep? Not only do they have to worry about hostile countries, or the guy next door that might be planning to strap on a suicide vest and visit their kids' school. Now the criminal element is getting bigger financial incentives, getting better organised, getting better armed, getting more incentivised to plough over any poor a$$hole that stumbles into their way. The safety of the public is going to sh*t all because messing with Middle Eastern countries makes some rich white a$$holes more billions to go on top of the billions they've already got?"

"You want to see what the little people are doing," he snaps. "Come with me. I'll _show_ you the little people."

We take my car. He gives me directions from the passenger seat while quietly admiring how well my Dad put the thing together. First he takes me to Mission Row where we see vagrants. So many vagrants. "Half of these guys have served their country. They get back, this is what happens to 'em," he says.

I stare, aghast. I don't have to worry too much about them noticing, the windows are protected by metal grids to protect the car's occupants from bullets. "How do they get this far, doesn't anybody help them?"

"Take a look at the folks walking by. They look like they're doing okay, don't they? You see any of _them_ helping?"

I want to get out of the car and go do something physical, but he stops me. "Come on, let's keep going," he says and directs me to our next stop at Legion Square where half-dressed women stand trying to attract attention of passing cars in between shivering from the evening chill as the intense heat of the day seems to disappear completely as the Sun abandons us over the Pacific. All wear heavy make-up, most of it barely covering black eyes, swollen lips. "What are they doing," I ask.

"The oldest job in the world," he says. "Selling themselves."

"Slavery," I ask, feeling dumbfounded, sick.

"Not quite. Your old man never taught you about prostitution?" My blank stare answers his question and he laughs. "Okay, you know the girls that used to crowd around us when we were off-duty?"

"Oh, sh*t," I mumble as the penny drops. "Why?"

"Why? Cos they're too numbed by drugs to do anything else, or their no good boyfriends are too lazy to get proper jobs themselves so they beat their girlfriends into coming out here."

"Where are these 'boyfriends'," I demand.

"Oh we aren't done yet," he replies, and instructs me to set off again. The car's roar catches the attention of a malnourished brunette in a torn pink dress, one leg clad in a fishnet stocking, the other bare. For a second, my eyes meet hers through the slats, but there's nothing there. It's like she's just hollow.

He directs me to drive even further South, through a place called Strawberry down to Grove Street. It's getting late in the evening now, and dark. Young men, predominantly in cheap purple sportswear, line the street, hanging out in front yards. I recognise the stench of marijuana, see them openly drinking from beer bottles, hanging in groups of three to six, yelling things at neighbors that dare open their front doors or risk a peek through the closed curtains of their windows. All eyes are on the Imponte as we cruise through. At the end of the street is a semi-circular dead end, but before that there's a street heading out to the left. I take that and follow it up to a road split in half by the railroad and cruise back towards Mission Row past businesses that are dead or dying, the only lights coming from a pawnbrokers or a liquor store. There's no half-dressed women down here, but I see the same hollow stares in the faces of the people on the sidewalks. The fear of the gangs I've heard about.

"What do you think of America, Sergeant," he asks, as if reading my thoughts.

"How is this allowed to happen? Why don't the cops-"

"The cops'd be slaughtered down here, soon as they bought their squad cars. They don't have the numbers or the resource to police all _this_."

"Why," I ask. It seems inconceivable, given the obvious scale of the problem.

"Rich white dudes," he replies. "They don't make their money fixing these folks' problems. They make their money while all these folks can _see_ is their problems."

"Somebody needs to put that right," I say.

"You haven't learned a damn thing tonight, have you," he replies, and directs me to one last stop.

In East Vinewood he has me park up outside a derelict motel. Across the street is what looks like some sort of auto-wreckage yard, except crowded on the sidewalk by it's walls, and beyond them in the yard are a lot of rough-looking guys. They're wearing an assortment of leather jackets, leather vests, T-shirts or Hoodies, but all have some variant of a similar design.

"Are you armed," he asks me. I draw my pistol. "Best leave that in the car," he says, and then gets out. I place the gun in the glovebox and get out, lock the car before following him across the road.

The two of us walk past the gathered guys, some of them turning to stare at us. One of them wolf-whistles and gives me a salacious grin when I turn to look at him, raises two fingers to his lips and sticks his tongue out at me between them, flicking it rapidly up and down. "You promise," I ask him and his buddies laugh.

Inquisitor leads me to a building at the back of the yard and heads inside. I follow him in, into a grimy bar. Now I can see the designs on the mens' clothes. The Lost MC. This is a biker clubhouse.

We have to barge our way through the assembled crowd to the bar, it's so tightly-packed. My clothes continue to draw attention. He has to yell at the young woman, barely out of her teens, standing behind the bar in an unbuttoned leather vest, lace panties and nothing else, but I still can't hear what he's ordered over the loud conversations and even louder hard rock music. A minute or so later a beer is slammed down in front of me which he pays for, expensive and heavily watered down.

It isn't long before I see what I'm supposed to. It's not the girl, naked except for tiny panties, "dancing" in the middle of the floor as everyone around her gets their hands on her flesh. It's the one being dragged by her arms, black mascara running down her face where an angry red welt splits her cheek, struggling against the men dragging her but unable to resist. She's bent over a pool table and her skirt is literally torn off of her while one of the guys picks up a pool cue.

He doesn't try to stop me as I barge my way through towards her. The biker holding her sees me coming and lashes out with a brutal jab that connects immediately with my forehead and I stagger backwards momentarily. But only momentarily. Then I hit back with a right jab of my own, this one directed at his throat, and that gets him off the girl. In front of me, the guy with the pool cue snaps it in half over his knee and comes towards me, swings first one at me, then the other. I get my elbows up to block both, remember my boxing training. He swings for me with the left a second time and I grab it, pull it from him and jab it back at his abdomen, making him double over and drop to the ground. Then a loud roar goes up and everybody in the place starts raining punches towards me. I look through the crowd towards Inquisitor for help. He's watching disapprovingly, sipping from his beer. Fine.

I try and protect myself with the cue as long as possible, but it's only a second or so before its pulled from my grasp and disappears. I take a punch to the nose and the pain makes my vision shrink to two small pinpricks, but they aren't done with me. Now they've got me, I'm lifted up and dumped onto the pooltable, the girl I'd tried to help shoved aside, out of the way. I lash out with boots and fists as much as I can, desperately fighting to get back up off my back, but I can't. They're forcing up my T-shirt, clawing at the fastening of my pants. I bite a hand that tries to clamp around my breast, headbutt another guy that's dumb enough to lean in, but there's too many of them. My wrists and ankles are pinned to the table. They've got me helpless.

The gunshot brings everything to a stop. Only then do I realise the music has stopped and a silence falls across the bar. Inquisitor is holding a pistol aloft and dust and bits of rubble rain from the bullethole in the ceiling. Pouring in through the door are four more men, but they're not bikers. They're all differently dressed, but each is carrying an automatic rifle with a laser sight, and wearing at least one item of clothing, be it a shirt or a hat, that's emblazoned with the same logo as the SecuroServ app Inquisitor put on my phone.

"There's a _way_ of things, Sergeant," he growls at me, before producing a roll of cash, peeling off some bills and laying them on the bar. "A way of things, and a _price_. _That's_ the lesson."

He takes the arm of the girl I'd tried to help and guides her gently to her feet, then leads her out of the bar. Gradually, the bikers release my limbs and I clamber to my feet and follow them out, but then the SecuroServ guys covering our rear open fire. I feel sick, but I know better than to turn back; the image of the massacre would haunt me like some of the things overseas. There's a heavy Insurgent parked in the yard, dead bikers on the ground. Inquisitor and the woman climb into the back, the other SecuroServ guys get in with them and it reverses back out, leaving me alone.

Quickly I run to the Imponte, frenziedly fumble with the key in the driver's door lock, then climb in, fire up the engine and floor it.


	2. Chapter 2

The house at Sustancia Road has a garage and I pull the Imponte into it and slam the door shut. If I'd been thinking more clearly I'd have paid a little bit more attention to the immaculate old Glendale in there but as it was, I needed to get into the house, and quick. There's no furniture or kitchen fixings but the bathroom is fully furnished which is good because I need to throw up.

I become aware that Harvey has entered the house and look up to meet his concerned gaze from the doorway, and that makes me instinctively straighten up and go into Soldier mode.

"Something I can help you with?"

His face flinches a little but he holds his ground. "That's what I came to ask you," he says. "You woke me up."

"Sh*t, sorry," I say, softening a little. I make to sit down on the sofa, then remember there isn't one. "I'm okay," I say, but even I'm not convinced by the shakiness in my voice.

"Um," he starts, looks down and shuffles uncomfortably. "If it's alcohol, I have some experience with that…"

"What? Why," I start to argue.

"The vomiting," he says. "Also I could kind of smell it on you yesterday."

I nod slowly. I _had_ been hungover when we first met face to face. "I see. But no, I'm not an alcoholic."

"Alright," he says and looks away. "I'm just gonna… let me know if you need anything, alright?"

I stop him walking away, reaching out and touching his shoulder. "Hey," I say, softly, realising that maybe I hurt his feelings. "Thanks. Just, erm… I had a run in with some people."

"Are you alright," he asks.

"Yeah. Just… I don't think they'll find me here, but just in case, watch your a$$."

"Okay," he acknowledges. "Just out of my own self-interest, who am I looking out for?"

"The Lost MC," I admit.

He exhales slowly through his nose then asks "are you armed?"

"Yes," I confirm.

"Good. We'll sleep in shifts. You call first or second. Lemme just go get my own piece."

Of course, I wanted to call first, and let him sleep all night but it was obvious that I'd not last much longer, I needed some rest. Besides, there's something about him that puts me at ease in spite of myself so I called the second shift and, of course, he woke me up a couple of hours later than agreed.

The buzzing of the doorbell startles both of us. I check the time on my watch. Zero-five-thirty on the dot. Harvey quietly slips out of his sleeping bag and checks his weapon. I draw mine and approach the door, check the viewhole. Standing outside is an African-American man, not exactly huge, but not small either, wearing a black sweater, black cargo pants and a cap emblazoned with the SecuroServ logo. I open the door and let him get a good view of my service pistol trained on his face.

"Good morning Sergeant Coleman," he says calmly in a low, strong voice that seems to resonate with authority. "Are you ready for work or do you need to shower and change first?"

"Change into what," I ask him, then " _who_ are you?"

"My name is Henry Wood," he introduces himself, then flicks his eyes to the right. I'd not even noticed Harvey slip into the garage to come around behind the guy on our doorstep. "I take it our mutual friend didn't inform you that I would be picking you up," he says to me, then turns his head slightly in Harvey's direction. "Mr Harvey, I'm therefore willing to forgive you aiming a gun at my head, but only so long as you would now please _put it down_."

Harvey looks towards me and I nod so he lowers it but he doesn't move.

"Shaun, would you keep an eye on our guest while I have a quick shower," I ask.

"Sure," he grimaces, eliciting a smile of amused delight from Henry Wood.

When I come back out, fresh and dressed in clean camo pants and olive T-shirt, I find the two of them still outside. Henry Wood is stood near his car, some sort of powerful Benefactor saloon which Harvey seems to like, but is trying to downplay the fact.

Wood's smile falters a little bit as I approach. "Sergeant Coleman, we really _are_ going to have to take you shopping," he says. "Can I assume you are bringing your weapon with you?"

"You bet you're a$$ I am," I confirm firmly.

"Excellent," he beams and walks around the car to open the front passenger door for me. "If you are ready to begin?"

I've jotted the number from the cellphone I got yesterday, and also the number of Inquisitor's phone, on a piece of paper which I hand it to Harvey as I approach the car. "Call me in an hour. If I don't answer, try the other number."

"Sergeant Coleman will see you, alive and well, this evening Mr Harvey," Wood tells him as I climb in and he closes the door for me. "I'm taking her to _work_. You _do_ remember work, don't you?"

The first thing Wood does when he climbs into the driver's seat is to place a telephone call using dedicated controls on his steering wheel which results in a ringing tone emanating from the car's speakers. It rings three times before a man answers "What is it Henry? Do you know what time it is?"

"Apologies Sir," Wood replies as he buckles his seatbelt and starts the engine. "I've just picked up your new associate but I'm afraid she's going to need a style package."

The man on the phone sighs heavily. "Fine," he concedes, grudgingly. "You know where to take her."

"Where to take her" turns out to be a branch of Posonby's in an area of the city I will later learn is Cougar Avenue in Morningwood. A dour looking woman brightens up slightly as Wood follows me in. "Mr Wood, how delightful to see you," she greets him in a professional, clipped accent, but their embrace seems entirely more personal.

"I have a new canvas for you," Wood replies and she turns to me to look me up and down. "Mm, another soldier. I suppose heels are off the menu. For now, at least."

"This one is different to what you're used to," Wood tells her. "Raised as a Survivalist."

"Well, you do like to make things interesting," she replies, and then gives me her full attention. "Come along my dear, let's see if we can find something you'll like. Well, at least something you're willing to _compromise_ with."

She leads me into a dressing room where I stand awkwardly. Worried that she's going to dress me like her. In fairness, while she's a mature woman, she looks pleasant enough in a white blouse and a black suit with a pencil skirt and simple black high heels, but that's nothing like I've ever worn before.

That being said, my choice of clothing does kind of stand out in the city.

As if reading my thoughts she says "don't worry my dear, I'm going to _dress_ you not flog you. Don't worry about Mr Wood. He knows well enough to remain by the door. Nobody else will be bothering you. Now why don't you slip those combat fatigues off and we'll find something a little bit more subtle for you."

She goes away so I do what I'm told and undress, stand waiting with my arms folded across my chest in my vest and shorts. A few minutes later she returns clutching armfuls of clothing and gasps "good _grief_ woman, you've never gone your entire life wearing mens' underwear?"

I feel anger flush through me. "Well, what do _you_ wear," I snap.

"Something a lot more comfortable than that. And you'll find it more _functional_ for your anatomy as well," she tells me back. She's not exactly snapping, but I realise I've upset her. I'm conflicted about whether that knowledge makes me happy or guilty but nobody asked my permission before they put me on parade.

She returns a moment later carrying a handful of individually packaged ladies undergarments, throws me one of them and tells me to put them on before pulling the curtain shut. I have to admit, they're immediately better.

She opens the curtain again and appraises me. "There you go. I'm sure you'll thank me later. I could measure you for a bra as well if you like, or are you happy for now to stick with the vest?"

"I'm good," I say. Bra?

"Hmm. Well, you can get away with it," she replies. I'll learn later that she's referring to my having quite small breasts. "Tell me what you think about this?"

She presents an outfit that I put on; pants which, whilst camouflaged, fit tightly to my legs and offer me no pockets. A dark red top, kind of like a T-shirt but not, looser fitting, and a black blazer.

"Where's my gun supposed to go," I complain.

She unbuttons her own jacket and reveals a .38 revolver holstered under her arm. "May I suggest a shoulder holster," she says. "They aren't available to or normal customers, but they are part of the packages I put together for your boss. Now, how do you feel about a skirt?"

"Only when I'm menstruating," I argue, then see the indecent thing she's picked out. "That won't even cover my knees," I complain.

She looks at it quickly, and back to me. "Maybe we could try a pencil skirt."

"What, and have to hobble everywhere," I ask. This is feeling more and more like a bad idea and I just want to pull my own clothes back on and get out of here.

"Oh dear," she sighs, and then steps in closer, turns me around to face the mirror. "Have you ever looked at yourself my dear," she asks, gently now.

"Only to make sure I have no wounds that need attention."

"Look at yourself now," she says. "Stop thinking about being a soldier. Stop thinking about surviving. You're a young woman."

"I don't let that hold me back," I say, irritated.

"Good heavens girl," she cries. "All this strength, but you've never capitalised on your power?"

"What do you mean," I ask, confused now.

She guides my attention back to my reflection in the outfit she put me in. "See how the jacket is fitted to the shape of your body," she asks. "The pants give definition and length to your legs? You give off a powerful first impression now, and one that's unique to you. Not an identikit soldier, barely recognisable from any other under baggy camouflage."

"I like my anonymity," I argue but my voice catches in my throat. She hears it and she smiles.

"Come on," she says. "This is supposed to be fun. Have you ever _had_ fun?"

"Does hitting a rabbit with a catapault count?"

She guides me around the shop. In addition to the outfit she gave me, we pick out a pair of dark blue jeans, an ash T-shirt with black contrasting stitching around the neck and the hem and a cropped black leather jacket, and a charcoal trouser-suit with a fitted white blouse. And, of course, one of those shoulder holsters she talked about. My gun feels reassuringly accessible under my left arm, even though its effectively concealed by the blazer.

For shoes, she has to convince me, but I walk out wearing a pair of flat black simple shoes, that she calls pumps, with a box containing some sandals. I do, however, insist on keeping my fatigues and combat boots.

Henry Wood smiles approvingly at me. "Good morning, _Miss_ Coleman," he says. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Thanks," I blush, in spite of myself. My father would probably have turned in his grave, if I'd have gotten around to burying him yet. "I'm not sure this is _really_ me..."

"Whatever the case, it is a good start," he replies, opening the door and holding it for me to leave.

Before walking out, I turn back to the woman. "Thank you," I say.

"I hope to see you again before too long my dear," she smiles.

We don't have to drive far to the next stop, it's at the Maze Bank West tower in Del Perro. Henry Wood parks the Benefactor up in an underground car park where a trio of brightly coloured, tastelessly modified supercars are also parked up, and we take an elevator to the 25th floor. Harvey calls as we're ascending so I can let him know I'm okay so far. He says he'll check in again in sixty. So he said he wasn't a soldier. I'm wondering then if he was a cop?

The doors open to a foul mouthed assault on our hearing as the guy Wood had called earlier in the car screams at somebody on the other end of his telephone while pacing around his office naked except for yellow boxer shorts and an open cherry-colored robe revealing all of his grotesque, overweight, hirsute physique. Two men and a woman, all in differing styles of suits, watch with scarcely concealed hilarity while at the reception desk, a brunette woman has one hand over her head, the other typing rapidly on a keyboard. She looks how I feel, like a fish out of water.

Henry Wood, unperturbed, guides me inside and introduces the rest of the team, all of whom distract their attention from their boss in turn to offer a friendly "hi". The woman of the group, a black haired Indian woman in a black skirt suit, platformed heels and a black tie with horizontal pink pinstripes is Aneesha Stamp. Rayhan Cope is a mousy-brown spikey haired guy with a slight Hispanic tint to his otherwise white skin in a comfortable slate jacket and matching pants with a black shirt and no tie, while middle-Eastern Zaid Shirazi is immaculately dressed in a fitted dark blue suit with matching waistcoat, pale blue shirt and plain black tie.

I notice Henry doesn't introduce the receptionist so I offer her my hand. "Hello," I say. "Winter Coleman."

She takes the handshake uncertainly. "Hello Winter. I'm Eliza."

The volume from our boss hits a crescendo and then he throws his phone across the office, shattering it and taking a chunk out of the wall, followed by an anguished "f***!" Wood looks over each of us and then returns his attention as our boss strides towards us and instructs us "get your a$$es in here," and leads us past the reception to a boardroom table at the back left of the office.

"Sergeant Coleman," he greets me. "You're just in the nick of time. Everything's going to _sh*t_."

"William Jefferies, your new boss," Wood introduces before turning his attention from me. What seems to be the problem?" His calm voice seems to infuriate Jefferies more.

"The _problem_ , Wood, is that SecuroServ's little warning to the Lost MC last night fell on deaf f***ing _ears_ , that's what the _problem_ is! You annihilated everyone there, but you didn't neutralize the tracker in the cargo! They've ripped off my entire f***ing _warehouse_!"

"Wait," I start. All eyes fall on me. Wood smiles.

"Yes, I'm afraid you were running a little distraction last night. The Lost MC stole a shipment from Mr Jefferies. They've been doing it a lot recently so we stepped in to try and… _deter_ them."

"You did great, by the way," Jefferies cuts in. "I like the way you handled yourself. But Wood, _what the f*** am I paying your clowns for_?"

Quietly, smoothly, Wood gets to his feet, walks to Jefferies, grabs him by the throat and shoves him backwards so that his chair topples over and he rolls backwards across the floor. He staggers to his feet angrily, but Wood is advancing on him and he involuntarily finds himself backing away until he bumps into the wall behind him.

"Need I remind you Mr Jefferies how our organisation is structured? SecuroServ is taking a risk with you, but a measured risk. However, if it appears that we are _mistaken_ …"

"Jeez, Wood, alright! Alright! I'm sorry," Jefferies yells. "I'm just pi$$ed off at my investment going down the toilet is all."

Wood stops his advance, turns slightly so that he's addressing all of us. "Yes, that is a decidedly disagreeable turn of events. Is the plant doing their job?"

"They got me a location," Jefferies confirms. "But the place is _swimming_ with f***in' bikers!"

Wood sweeps his glance over the four of us still seated at the board table. "Well that's what you're for, isn't it?"

* * *

I ride with Aneesha Stamp. She's driving a white Benefactor Feltzer that's scarcely more subtle than my Dad's Imponte while behind us, Cope and Shirazi follow us in Cope's gleaming red Ocelot Lynx. I'm not really a gear head, but that sleek coupe was beautiful. The four of us are in radio contact with earpieces that Wood gave us all. He and Eliza, apparently Jefferies' assistant, are on the frequency as well. Our destination is a seafood diner up the West coast, a place called Hookies on the Great Ocean Highway in North Chumash, but before that we've got a stop to make at a storage facility in La Mesa, near the industrial heart of the city.

"Are you one for conversation," she asks me in clear but accented English.

"Not really," I confess. "My Dad was never one for saying more than necessary, so…"

"You were raised by your father? Alone," she asks me, swinging the Feltzer smoothly around a minivan at a speed few would consider appropriate inside city limits, particularly at this time of day.

"Yeah," I say, but my voice catches as his letter comes up in my memory to haunt me. "What about you?"

"I grew up in New Delhi," she says. " _Both_ our parents are still alive but they couldn't afford us. That or they just couldn't be bothered with us. So they put us into an orphanage. Not really a place where a girl is expected to do so well for herself, but I was lucky." I notice her grip tighten slightly on the wheel. "I _made_ myself lucky."

"What happened," I ask.

"I learned early on to stand up for myself, and for my younger brothers. One day I was fighting off a shopkeeper who wanted to accuse my brother of being a thief. He wanted to… anyway, I changed his mind and a visiting white man saw me and offered me a job as his guide while he was in New Delhi. After that, he offered me a job full time. Bought my brothers and I an education, got us out of the orphanage. And he _trained_ me."

"Where are your brothers now?"

"Harish works for an international banking conglomerate. Math was always his passion. Muni is a student at a British university, although I'm not sure he ever intends to leave," she smiles. "You want to ask me next about the man that took us into his embrace? He was a kind man but he moved in unfriendly circles. Something of a financier. He had a powerful reputation, in those circles. Unfortunately he was murdered following a supposedly bloodless coup-de-tat on a day he'd decided I wouldn't be at his side."

We reach our destination, breaking off Popular Street in La Mesa into a large industrial self-storage unit with a front yard full of semi trailers. Rayhan Cope pulls up ahead of us and Shirazi climbs out of the Lynx to open unit number four. Cope drives into it, followed by Stamp and I in her Feltzer. There's ample space inside, indeed waiting for us in there is a Karin Sultan RS, spray-painted matt black with rattle cans. It's a good bet that the license plates are either fakes or stolen, the VIN numbers removed. This is likely a stolen car kept for disposability. In addition to the car is a motorcycle, a Western Daemon with gaudy orange flames and a tan leather seat with tassels hanging from it, embossed with the insignia of The Lost MC.

Cope slides a plastic container from a shelf and drops it onto the ground by his feet, then looks me up and down, scans over a few more boxes with numbers written on them, some form of code I don't have the time or patience to decipher. After a few seconds he pulls one off and extends it with both arms in my direction. "These should be about your size," he says.

I take the box and pull off the lid. "What the hell," I complain.

"What? Think you can walk into an emergency meeting of every West Coast chapter of The Lost MC looking like that," Cope says, snapping the top off his own box and pulling out the selection of clothing inside. "We're going to have to go undercover."

"That's easy for you to say," I snap back at him. "At least you _get_ some cover. The f*** is _this_ ," I demand, pulling fishnet tights out of the box.

Nope, this is not going to work. The skirt in there barely qualifies as a belt and the heels on the boots I could snap off and stab somebody to death with. Actually, that would be helpful if only I could actually _walk_ in them.

I scan the numbers on the box, figure out the codes that relate to dress and shoe size and scan over some other boxes that match. I find a pair of denim shorts in one box, very short but still better than the skirt, and some chunky engineer boots in another. With those in hand, I conceded to the fishnet tights, bikini top and cropped black leather jacket with the demeaning phrase "Property of The Lost MC" written on the back in what looks like corrective fluid.

Cope meanwhile has dressed in jeans, black boots, a torn T-shirt and a leather vest with The Lost's logo on it and a nametag that reads "Smithy". Our own clothes go into the boxes and then Zaid Shirazi gets into the Sultan, where Stamp has already slid into the driving seat and I have to climb onto the tiny pad of hard leather that constitutes a pillion passenger seat behind Cope on the Daemon.

Once we're outside the unit, Cope confirms into his headset "okay, we've got the bike. Moving to the location. My contact's on standby."

"Good," Eliza's voice comes over. "I've routed the backup team to approach from the South but you guys are going to have to take a detour and ride North so it looks like you've come down the Great Ocean Highway. Don't want anybody thinking you've come from the city and blowing your cover."

* * *

I hate this. I'm not in control of the bike, I'm looking like I'm supposed to be Cope's surrendered girlfriend or something and, worst of all, he's having to look after my weapon because the biker jacket won't cover the shoulder holster. All I've got now is a switchblade. The pillion pad is immediately uncomfortable and only gets worse the further we ride, twisting through winding woodland roads in the a$$hole of nowhere to circle around towards Paleto Bay so we can approach Hookies from the North. It takes entirely too long.

The place is indeed swarming with the bikers I'd encountered at the clubhouse Inquisitor had taken me to, the Lost MC. Their hogs and people crowd the parking lot, deterring a lot of would-be customers who abandon their intentions to park up in the place and accelerate past.

"Game face on," Cope calls back to me above the noise of the wind, road and the thump of the hog's engine on our approach before swinging it across the two lanes of oncoming traffic earning us a chorus of angry honks from a minivan and a semi-truck which also blinds us with a couple of flashes of its headlights, but we're into the lot.

I climb off while Cope backs up parallel to a hole convoy of custom chops and bobbers, then he kills the engine and dismounts and leads me into the amassed chaos.

"Standby," we hear Eliza tell us. "I'm getting audio from inside, just need one of our… _partner's_ satellites to let me in."

Cope leans in close. "The Lost have been getting involved in a lot of stuff they used to leave alone recently. Cos of that, SecuroServ have been trying to send them a message to cease and desist, but it doesn't look like they're getting it."

"Where are the others," I ask, risking a glance around. It seems that the important stuff is going on inside the restaurant. Out on the front porch, serious looking enforcers stand barring entry, watching but taking no active involvement in the otherwise high-spirited shenanigans going on in the parking lot. Somebody's got a full hogroast going, the animal's corpse bearing a cardboard cut-out of a Sheriff over its face, the word "Verzynski" written in large letters underneath. There's a couple of fights going on in different parts of the lot, men and women gathered around gambling on the outcome and cheering on the combatants. Women in outfits similar to my own thread their way throughout the crowd, not having to work too hard to tempt men to follow them behind the trio of garage buildings or into the outhouse inside which half a dozen or so portaloos are set up.

"Close by, waiting on your signal," Eliza replies. "Winter, your phone has a SecuroServ app. Inside that you can pick up the signal from the cargo they stole from us if it's there. Only problem is, if it's inside those garages, you'll have to get quite close."

Cope grabs my arm. "Stick together," he says, leaning in close so only I can hear him, and so it would look to anybody watching us like he's giving me instructions to come engage in the same activities behind the garages as the other women.

"Okay, I've got that audio," Eliza says and then we get the feed from inside the restaurant.

 _"..been tough lately. Half our number were decimated last night!"_

 _"You West Coast f***s have had it easy for too long. You let yourselves think you were untouchable-"_

 _"Hey, f*** you, you punk. You let one of your own rat out Billy Gray and then you let him die in prison."_

 _"ENOUGH! Is this what we're doing? We're fighting against ourselves now? Chapter against chapter? Brother against Brother?"_

Cope leads me slowly past the southernmost garage. I check my phone's screen, shake my head. Nothing. He pretends to be impressed by one of the parked up bikes while I wander slowly past the next one, then I get a ping from behind the final door. Cope turns around and strides back to me to grab my arm again and we make our way onwards towards the second building.

 _"…need to unify. No more 'this chapter's into this.' 'This chapter sees to that.' From now on, all Lost business is_ Lost _business. The work is shared. The output is shared."_

 _"How's that gonna work across state lines?"_

 _"Are you refusing to be part of one Brotherhood, brother?"_

 _"No. I just want the details."_

 _"Then shut your damn trap and let me f***ing_ get _to them."_

Nothing from any of the three garages in the second building. One left. Some guys are standing around drinking from bottles of Pißwasser and as we pass one of them stops and calls out "hey! Sergeant Coleman, ain't it?"

 _Oh, sh*t…_

He moves closer. "It _is_ you," he beams and damn it if I don't recognise this f****r. Lance Corporal Brent Robles. Did two tours of Iraq, got a two inch bit of shrapnel in his leg and managed to have himself discharged even though he'd have suffered worse injuries falling off a damn bicycle as a kid. And now he's beckoning over some other guys I recognise. Braden Myers. Paxton Cole. F*****g Jaylon Decker and Colton Riley, still an inseparable pair of a$$holes. Riley turns me around so the rest of 'em can see the back of my jacket and that seems to amuse them.

"Which lucky _sumbitch_ broke _you_ in, Sergeant," Decker asks, all but licking his dumba$$ lips.

"I did," Cope says from behind me. "Old friends of yours, baby," he asks, leaning into me. Uh, am I really going to have to kiss him? Turns out yes I am.

"Some old military buddies," I say, wondering if I'm striking the right sort of bimbo tone. Too much or too little and these guys will get over their hard-ons and stop buying it. "You guys know Smithy?"

"No," answers Robles, leaning in for a handshake. He and Cope do some strange greeting ritual with their hands that I swiftly try and memorise, but I'm gonna need that running past me in slow motion about a billion times. "What Chapter you out of Smithy?"

"Used to be San Fiero, but those of us left are all kind of nomads now," Cope says, sounding suitably rueful. That earns encouraging nods from most of the guys.

 _"…fucking Sheriff Verminski-"_

 _"Verzynski."_

 _"Whatever, sh*tbrick, what you wanna f*****g give him a bl*wj*b? Point is, he's been runnin'_ all _our activity outta Paleto."_

"Well, what you two doin' after all this? We prolly gonna be getting a party, send off the poor sumbitches at the Vinewood clubhouse a proper send off," Robles is saying to Cope.

"That sounds good. We got a little _thing_ to take care of first. Might be a lead we can bring to the Club, but I gotta check it out first," Cope says.

"Well, cool, you, you want some muscle," Paxton Cole cuts in, while Braden Myers, Decker and Riley eye me up and down salaciously.

"It's kind of something I'm trying to keep on the down-low for now," Cope says, not being dissuaded. "But that's business. First, I need to be getting' to some _pleasure_ , don't I baby?"

The guys give encouraging cheers as I let Cope lead me away by my shoulder, try not to vomit at the thought of them watching my a$$ in these stupid shorts as he takes me behind the trio of garages. There's a lot of couples already f*****g back there so we've not exactly got any privacy, but we find a quiet-ish spot for him to lean me against a wall and wrap my legs around his waist so he can pin me in place with his pelvis. Both of us notice, behind the main restaurant, two semi trucks, both guarded with more serious-looking enforcers.

"Careful Cope. I've killed for less," I say quietly as he leans in.

"Appearances, Coleman," he replies, just as quiet. "Believe me, you're not my type."

I arch an eyebrow at him. "Too willful?"

He grins. "Too female."

Ouch.

Something back here is masking the audio feed from my earpiece. "Can you hear anything," I ask.

"No," Cope says. "Probably the buildings getting in the way. Did you notice the trucks?"

"Yeah," I say. As we talk, Cope is running his head up and down the side of mine, giving the impression we're making out. I wrap my arms around his neck. "Did you get any more hits on the transponders?"

"Only one more," he replies. "That makes no sense. What they took, they'd need three trucks, at least."

"Maybe they've already unloaded them," I wonder.

"Only one way to find out. You ready to make some noise?"

I grin. "I cannot f*****g wait!"

He pulls his phone from his jeans pocket, puts it to his ear as if he's receiving, rather than making a call, but then he lets go of me and steps back, frowns down at it. I glance down at the screen, see that he's getting no signal. "What the," I start. He shakes his head at me, feigns anger, and strides back around to the main parking lot. I follow, keeping my distance to keep up the little biker's girlfriend routine, then see him put the phone back to his ear. As I step out into the parking lot, the audio feed comes back on.

 _"… truck contains the goods. We're selling them today. The other contains a gift for the Sheriff."_

 _"What about the f*****g suits?"_

 _"They'll eventually track the transponders to here. We'll be gone by then, there's a little surprise waiting for them."_

Cope's gaze meets mine and I can see him saying "abort! Abort" into his phone. Seconds later a black Buzzard attack helicopter speeds low overhead, drawing the attention of everybody in the whole lot. Immediately the Enforcers get to work, ordering bikers closest to them to get on their hogs. It had seemed noisy in the lot before, but when fifty to a hundred hogs fire up, it's almost impossible to hear anything else.

I turn around and notice Robles striding towards Cope. "You," he yells accusingly. I'm going to hurry over to him but I've got the a$$hole twins, Riley and Decker coming for me.

"I always wanted to put a different stick up you're a$$," Riley leers, grabbing me by the throat. I slice diagonally up his forearm with the switchblade, then press it to Decker's throat so he doesn't resist me taking his gun. "Go," I order when I've got it in my hand and he helps his friend away as blood sprays from the wound.

Cope has his own gun in one hand, mine in the other, holding a Mexican standoff against Robles, Cole and Myers. "How do I know it's not _you_ setting this up," he demands.

"You were the one holding a _phone_ , a$$hole," Robles sneers.

I cock the hammer on Decker's gun, come up behind Robles and put it to his temple, hooking my free arm around his neck. "And I'm holding a _gun_ to your head, Corporal."

"Thought it was too good to be true you'd fall in line," he complains, but he keeps is gun on Cope.

"Don't be stupid. This was nothing to do with us," I yell, as firmly as I can, using my Sergeant tone. Over Cope's shoulder, I see the two trucks moving out of the lot, heading towards the highway.

"I wanna believe you, Coleman, especially cos you look hot and all like that. But I recognise this f***," Robles retorts. "You got a sleek red coupe, don't you?"

"Actually," I hear from behind me, in accented English. "It was us."

I let Robles go and all of us turn to see Zaid Shirazi and Aneesha Stamp. They're both holding heavy calibre machine guns.

"Oh sh*t," starts Myers and raises his gun to shoot. Stamp's cannon rips him to shreds. Everybody else scatters and runs for their lives. Shirazi lowers his gun, takes a remote control detonator from his pocket and that's when everything really does turn to chaos.

Its a second or two before I realise that I'm alive, I'm lying on the ground and there's an exchange of gunfire going on over my head. Well, not so much an exchange. Stamp and Shirazi are finishing off disoriented bikers who are taking wild potshots. I'm gonna scramble to my feet, but my gaze catches Cope's who's also on the ground, covered in grime and with a trickle of blood coming from one ear. He holds up a hand, instructing me to stay down for time being, until the shooting stops and Stamp offers me her hand to pull me up.

From the restaurant, a woman with hair so dark black it has to be dyed comes running, wearing a heavily torn short cropped T-shirt under an even shorter cropped sleeveless denim jacket and leather shorts so small they might as well be underwear. I notice she's holding a small machine pistol and raise my gun in her direction. Cope darts over to me and pushes it down. "Hold your fire," he says quietly.

"What the _Hell_ do you think you're doing," she demands.

"This is Katie. SecuroServ's plant in The Lost MC," Cope explains. She hears and screws her face up.

"Not any more. I just had to execute most of their chapter presidents because of you f*** ups."

"Yeah, well they should have thought what might happen to them when they insisted on stealing our cargo," Cope snaps. "Speaking of which..."

"The cargo's in one of those trucks you let get away. You could have been trailing them and making sure the bomb doesn't reach Paleto Bay, but no, you had to flex your f****ng muscles here and make a mess to show what a f****ng bunch of bad a$$es y'all are."

"Bomb," I ask, alarmed.

"Heading for the Paleto Bay sheriff's station," Katie pouts.

"Fuck, we got to stop that truck," I say.

"You've got to get my f****ng cargo," Jefferies yells and I remember the earpiece. Cope is already running towards his bike.

"It would be wise to avoid letting any harm come to the police," Wood's voice comes over. "I dare say we've already bought enough of a spotlight-"

"I want my stuff back damn it," Jefferies interrupts. "I've got too much investment in that stock to lose it all now!"

I can't listen to this anymore and rip out the earpiece. Katie's firing up a bike and I get on it behind her. From the corner of my eye I notice Stamp and Shirazi running for the Sultan as well. The trucks and it's convoy of enforcers have got a head start on us, but we catch up with them before Paleto Bay. One of them exits to the right and I notice Cope and the Sultan peeling off after it. That leaves me and Katie to deal with the truck bomb.

"Give me your gun," she says. I do, and she hands me her machine pistol in it's place. "It's full metal. You can't do what you gotta do with thirty rounds, you can't do it at all."

I run a quick tally of bikers escorting the truck as we draw catch up to it; about a dozen. Three of 'em have pillion passengers. There'll probably be a dozen more bikes in front of the truck. "Try and hold it steady," I tell Katie and take aim at the closest of the bikes with a passenger. The gun has no method for switching between automatic and semi-automatic mode; I only squeeze the trigger gently but waste three rounds. No matter, I hit the rear tyre and the bike flips over, spilling the guy and the woman on it onto the tarmac. Katie taps them both in the head as we pass.

"Heads up," she yells; the other bikers have seen us coming and are slowing down to intercept us. I open up with the machine pistol, spitting short bursts. My first volley misses, so does my second, but then I get a hit, and then another.

Two down, but I've only got fifteen rounds left.

Katie takes out a pillion passenger and their rider with the pistol. Eight bikes left.

I fire my next volley at the last bike with a passenger. They're firing back at us now. Katie has to swing the bike to the left, into oncoming traffic, and my shot goes wide, but I'm getting a feel for the gun now. I still have fourteen rounds.

Using the cover of oncoming traffic, Katie draws us level and I manage to hit the rider with a single round in between a semi truck and a classic muscle car. Thirteen rounds, seven bikes, but now we've got one coming up behind us. I reach back, hooking my free arm around Katie's waist and fire behind us, but they swerve out of the way. I switch arms and try again, miss again. They return fire and Katie swings us through oncoming traffic back onto the right side of the road. They try to follow us and collide head-on with a Japanese sedan.

A shotgun round explodes on the tarmac barely two feet ahead of us and we're showered with asphalt. "Sh*t," Katie curses, and I realise she's dropped the pistol.

The shot-gunner is reaching back for a second blast. I aim the machine pistol at him and delicately squeeze off a round that hits him in the forehead. "We're running out of road," Katie complains, and we are; Paleto Bay lies ahead of us, not thirty seconds away.

"Get us up on it's right," I yell. She steers towards the right edge of the road and guns it. I fire rapid shots at the remaining bikers behind now, depleting the cartridge but only taking out two more, but it buys us the window we need for her to get me level with the trailer. This is stupid, but I don't have time to think it through. I have to stop these a$$holes hurting any civilians. I swing one leg around so I'm sat side-saddle on the back of the bike, facing the truck, and I jump. Hit it hard and hurt. well, everything, grab on to metal just in time to not fall completely onto the road and get crushed under the rig's rear wheels, The bikers up front have sensed that the truck is nearing it's destination now and it starts turning hard left. I'm clinging on struggling to get my left leg up off the asphalt when a biker dives out of the passenger door of the cab. F***, now or never.

Sometimes you read these stories of what people are capable of in those last moments when death seems almost inevitable. Some inexplicable surge of strength and clarity that enables them to push through their normal limits to achieve something extraordinary. Of course, adrenaline is a large part of it, but if you think the average person can just suddenly become Robot Princess Bubblegum, think again. That's bullsh*t. When adrenaline hits, first thing you're gonna do is panic. That's what training's for.

I want to panic. I want to cry and be disappointed that I'm gonna die this way, but the training takes over. I need to haul my ass up and into the cab, and that's what I do. There's a dude about to jump out the driver's door. He's got a cord attached to his belt that'll pull a key that'll trigger the bomb so I grab his collar and haul his ass back in and then I rain punches into his face. The fucker's tough, he can take a beating, but it slows him down. I have no chance of keeping him in the cab, if I try, I'm a dead woman. But I don't need him. I just need his belt. It takes him barely a couple of seconds to recover from the beating I gave him, but that's all the time I need to shove the switchblade through his temple.

That's better. Now he's gone slack I can steer the truck right, away from the Sheriff's station but now I'm thundering through the middle of Paleto Bay. Driving the thing is a pain in the ass with his corpse in the driving seat though, but I don't have time to worry about that. The bikers have realized something has gone wrong and they're speeding back onto my six, chasing me down. I steer sharply to the left and take out three of the bikes trying to overtake me, then try the same trick with the three on the right, but they're already wise to me and have backed out, out of the way. I need to get this thing far enough away from civilization, but traffic is heavy and the truck won't move that fast anyway. Another thought occurs to me - what if they've got a failsafe? They could blow me up at any time!

F***, f***, f***... no, don't waste energy thinking like that. Think, soldier!

I miss the first intersection, too busy watching what's going on behind me, but I spot the gas station coming up and realise I can swing it right and back onto the highway. Not much better, but at least it's kind of away from people's homes and businesses. Lost MC bikers roar out ahead of me from the intersection I missed to cut me off and I have to drop down in the seat to not get shot as they blast out the windshield, mash my foot to the floor on the gas peddle and just ram straight for them. Blood splatters over me and I realise the corpse has taken some hits, there's now blood pouring from him all over the seat, over me, over the wheel - that's gonna make this even harder. There's yelling from beyond the truck and then I feel us go over one of the bikes, momentarily slowing me down. I have to stick my head up to check if I'm clear in front and I am, but just as I'm checking the driver's side wing mirror, it gets shot out. I can sort of see a few of 'em in the left, but it's of little help. I'm pretty much driving blind right now. Up ahead I see Katie coming to rejoin the chase and she's obviously stopped and doubled back to collect a few guns from the bikers we put down earlier. A few seconds later I hear her shotgun and see a bike dropping to the asphalt in my remaining mirror.

Up ahead is a dirt road leading up to the old sawmill. I pull hard left on the wheel, have to lean into it and almost lose my grip on it a couple of times because of all the blood, but I manage to get the truck around onto the dirt and between piles of logs. While I'm making the turn I risk a glance out to try and see how many bikers I've still got, but the trailer's mostly in the way. Plenty of gunfire being exchanged between them and Katie though.

I was gonna take it to the sawmill, I don't know why, I thought it was abandoned, but at the fork I spot some workers and have to abandon the idea and pull the truck to the right, almost tipping it over. The wheels somehow find purchase on the dirt and again I'm moving forwards, up a winding dirt road and over a wood bridge that somehow takes the truck's weight. There's a sharp left-hand hairpin coming up though and as I take it I'm sent diving down in the cab for cover as bullets smash through the side window and blow holes through the door. Again, the corpse blocking the driver's seat shields me from the gunfire and now I can see that I've still got five bikers to worry about, Katie falling slightly back to switch guns.

The road takes me around another hairpin back to the right and then I'm climbing, climbing, losing speed, heading towards a tunnel looming up ahead, going through the mountain. I keep my foot mashed down on the gas, but the weight of the thing is working against me now and bikers flank me on both sides. I try to swipe them again, but I just don't have the power for it now. Gunfire rakes the cab from both sides and I drop down to the floor, crying out, having to push down on the accelerator with my fists. My chest burns with the knowledge that I'm going to die now, that they're going to get the truck back. That I've failed. But then Katie comes back up behind me and I almost weep with relief as the boom of her shotgun rings out and I have two less bikers to deal with. I haul myself back up, mashing my foot down on the gas and finally I'm into the tunnel, on the level and building speed. There's a biker caught surprised by the truck's sudden surge in power and I crush him against the tunnel wall. Another shotgun boom puts paid to another, but then he returns fire and I hear Katie's bike slamming to the ground. My heart feels like it's just exploded, is she okay? I desperately glance at the mirror, but I can't see her.

Ahh, f***, I can't see _anything -_ coming out of the tunnel I have the sun right in my eyes and I'm blinded. My vision's barely cleared before I realise I'm inescapably heading towards a sheer drop. Nothing else I can do now, it's time to bail. My fingers slip on the door handle a couple of times but then I manage to get it open and plunge out blindly, meeting the ground far too hard and far too quickly. Everything hurts at once and I spin once, twice, a million f*****g times and the truck explodes before I can bring myself to a stop. There's a crash too; the other biker has come off. I want to be sick, but I try and ignore the fact, force myself to my feet. Then I get a whack in the back of the head and darkness takes over.


	3. Chapter 3

Something hit me on the head. I'm not sure if that was before or after the explosion...

 _"The f*** did you pick them up for?"_

It's dark. Very dark. I'm in so much pain...

 _"..bikers, the guy had this. You know we need weapons after the Canadian cleaned us out."_

My back hurts and my wrists and ankles burn. I try to move, but they're bound. Why can't I...

 _"...killed some poor trucker. They need to learn about_ sacrifice. _"_

Can't wake up... In the trunk. Biker here with me.

 _"...we're hungry. It's been too long, we're gettin'_ older _."_

Can't... some form of...

 _"An' we got the_ medical _supplies..."_

..sedative...

 _"Okay. Get them in._ Quick _."_

Consciousness starts to flood back in but it makes no sense. The biker and I are carried into a dark wooden hut and laid out on a couple of tables, but I can't will my body to put up any sort of fight. My vision swims so I can't tell you if there are three or thirty people around us. I feel my head being manhandled, tilted to the left and then the right, and my clothing being pulled away.

 _"Jesus... Looks like she's already spoiled. Too bad."_

The room is spinning but I'm trying to think through it and assess my situation. I'm outnumbered, groggy and lethargic. My entire body hurts. Any kind of resistance now would be foolish. I'm hoping the biker will realise that too, that we could maybe work together to get ourselves out of here but no, he immediately starts laying on slurred threats and coarse language, struggling to get himself upright.

His beating is ferocious and doesn't stop until all he can do is groan helplessly as they start stripping him and going through his possessions. I try to stay still, make out like I'm still unconscious. Something heavy hits my hip before landing on my table with a loud thunk and it takes all my wits to not yell out in pain.

"That might be useful," someone says, before some other junk gets dumped on top of me.

I try to keep myself as still as possible until I hear somebody say "alright, get him out of here. When he's all gone, we're moving out again."

The biker moans desperately as he's hauled up and out, and suddenly the room is quieter. I half wonder if I'm alone, but quickly discover I'm not. Somebody takes hold of my head and tilts it to either side again.

"Yeah, you might've been a pretty one," they say.

The hand slides down my throat and then cups my breast through the bikini top. "Shame you're all busted up. Your blood might have tasted real good," he continues. I want to fight, to demand they get off me, adrenaline is coursing through me but I'm still not lucid enough for it to be useful. The hand slides under the bikini top and pinches my nipple. I try and keep up the pretence, but it's no good. My guard chuckles. "You can drop the act now. You were _real_ good though."

I open my eyes, have to blink a few times before the visual input stops hurting and risk sitting up. That earns me a firm hand on my chest, firmly but carefully pushing me back down. "Bet you had _him_ fooled, huh," the guy says. Gradually his features fade into view. He's stark naked, grey and wizened, an old man but with surprising strength.

"Who," I ask dumbly. Pointless question, but I'm not thinking straight.

"That biker. We had a few o' them over the years. Ironic how they call 'emselves The Lost," he chuckles, turning around to pick something up that I can't see. "Never saw one like you though," he continues, coming back to me now and washing over my head with a damp sponge. "How old're you, like twenty-five?"

"Twenty-six," I croak. F***, why can't I wake up?

"Twenty-six," he repeats. "Little old for a biker's wh*re to be so healthy. What are you, undercover cop? Fed?"

"Soldier," I reply. Jesus Christ, why don't I just write him down my address and have him a key cut for the front door?

"Well, I can appreciate that," he says, tending now to my legs and abdomen with the sponge. It stings like a bitch but my Dad raised me better than to let him know that. "You millennials, you're not usually of much use, but you served your country, so that earns you my respect. Too bad your country's run by a bunch of sissy-ass li'l bitches nowadays, but I guess that ain't _really_ your fault."

All I want to do is wake up, and not risk angering this crazy old sociopath before I can, but I can't think of anything to say to try and hold his interest, so I decide I'll keep quiet unless I'm spoken to. I get the impression he prefers it that way anyway. Gradually I become aware of a chanting from outside.

 _Youth_ _  
_ _Ban deceit_ _  
_ _Eat of the flesh_ _  
_ _Drink of the blood_

"Should've waited until I had my hand in your panties before admitting I knew you were awake," the old guy says. What the Hell am I supposed to say to _that_? "What, you wouldn't've liked that," he demands when I maintain silence.

"I… don't know," I say, uncertainly. Damn straight I wouldn't have liked it, but I'm not gonna tell _you_ that, nutjob.

 _We shall be free once more_ _  
_ _Altruism_ _  
_ _The greatest good_ _  
_ _For the greatest generation_ _  
_ _We shall boom again_

"You don't _know_? Tell me soldier, you never got laid before?" My visible embarrassment answers his question for me and he chuckles. "Well, well," he says salaciously. "You might be of some use to us after all." I lost my composure here - well, wouldn't _you_? - but he gave me that damn chuckle again. "Don't worry yourself, soldier. You're not gonna become a camp wh*re. You're gonna be _all_ for Jared." He turns away now, steps towards a desk and busies himself filling a syringe with something.

 _He has come_ _  
_ _Hello seeker_ _  
_ _Hello finder_ _  
_ _We kneel before you_

"What's happening out there," I ask, risking the subject change.

He turns his head back the door. "Oh your friend? He's learning the meaning of sacrifice." He turns his head back towards me and starts to say "just like you will," but I've taken the opportunity to roll off the table, free from his clawing hand, onto the floor. There's a loud clatter as stuff falls around me. "What you doing, you stupid-," he starts, following me around the table and dragging me up by my hair. Which is actually a useful favor. I've found out what the heavy thing was that they dumped onto me, that might've been useful. It's a keychain, shaped like a winged skull. It has a selection of keys on it but I don't need to bother with them. One of the wings goes through his eyeball quite nicely. I lean into it with all of my bodyweight and he collapses without uttering a sound, but he takes a basket of dirty looking medical tools with him that clatter noisily as they rain down onto the ground. I drop to the floor and hold my breath listening. Outside, the chanting continues.

 _We prostrate our continuing youth and vigor_ _  
_ _At this altar that has been sent to us_ _  
_ _Hello finder_ _  
_ _Prepare to be made pure_

As quickly and as quietly as I can I make my way over to the guy to check he's definitely dead. Satisfied, I retrieve the keychain, which takes nearly all the strength I have right now to get out and rifle through the discarded tools, finding a scalpel and a vicious looking saw. I search the room for my clothing but it's gone, and so is the biker's. Returning to the guy's body, I see he's still got the syringe in his hand. I take it and turn to the counter where he'd been working, find a bottle of the sedative they've been using on me amongst a whole assortment of other medical stuff.

That's when I hear a low, but anguished groan coming from beyond a door further in the building. Creeping towards the door, I crack it slightly ajar and look into the room. There's another old guy on the bed, his body a mess of old gunshot wounds turning septic and gangrenous. His eyes lock with mine as I stare, but he's got a glazed expression. He doesn't try to move. He just joins in with the chant.

 _Purity is everything_ _  
_ _Pure flesh_ _  
_ _Pure blood_ _  
_ _Purity is everything_

The chanting stops and the sacrifice begins, and shortly afterwards I hear several muffled screams of agony from the biker. "Purity is everything," the guy on the bed whispers again, and then collapses back into unconsciousness. I drop into a crouch and check out the building. No other weapons to be found apart from the discarded medical tools. Two windows in one wall, both boarded up so the candle light gives the only illumination. Two exits on the opposite wall. I realise this isn't a building, it's a trailer. Staying low, I crack one of the doors open and peer out. Maybe thirty feet away, on a rock midway up a gravelly hillside, I count eight figures crouched around the naked biker, on his knees with his wrists bound behind his back. His head is turned towards me and his eyes are open but he's not moving anymore. I realise the figures around him have cut chunks out of his flesh and they're eating him. I almost throw up there and then, but I need to _move_.

You've heard the rumors, everybody has. There was a camp high up in the Chiliad state wilderness where cannibalistic baby boomers gave up on the comforts of modern society, blamed the succeeding generations for all the problems in the world and tried to recapture their youth by drinking the blood of young people. Allegedly this camp was powered by a motor that drew static electricity from the atmosphere and it was invisible from the air. I'm not sure about the last part, but the camp is real. Or _was_ , anyways; the Paleto Bay Sheriffs Department found most of them dead at the end of '13 in an apparent mass suicide.

Most folks thought that was the end of them but, as I just found out, it wasn't.

As stealthily as I can, which isn't very considering I'm still drowsy from sedation and the pain levels in my body are steadily increasing with every passing minute, I stagger from the door and stumble to the edge of the trailer and around the front corner but then I spot the roadblock and stop dead as my heart catches in my throat.

Two old RV's in such sh*t shape they make Harvey's seem luxurious, along with a battered old Dundreary Regina station wagon and an equally battered Albany Emperor sedan. Guarding the roadblock are four more old men, all bearing small arms; two of them have pistols, one clutches a shotgun and one guy, seemingly their leader, is sat naked on the hood of the Emperor holding a heavy-looking revolver.

I stand pressing myself against the trailer, I don't know how long for, until I'm certain they've not seen me. Briefly I consider going back around the other side of the trailer, but now I can hear the sacrifice party starting to talk. It won't be long before they head back down the hill. I drop to the deck and try to get under the trailer, but it has a fence all the way around to prevent that, so I have to crawl on my stomach, getting sand, dirt and grit in my still-raw wounds as I make my way towards the trailer's road-facing rear porch and into the cover of shadow. Finally I find a gap in the fence under the trailer and shuffle my way underneath, just in time as one of the doors bangs open. A second later there's a cry of alarm and I hear someone yelling to set up a perimeter. A couple of seconds later, I see him heading around to talk to the alerted guards at the roadblock.

The leader on the hood of the Emperor is already stood up by the time the guy who discovered I'd gone gets to him and he's issuing orders to the other guards to fan out. That's when his head erupts a small cloud of crimson and he drops to the deck. The guy with the shotgun is executed in similar fashion immediately afterwards and the two men clutching pistols take shelter behind the barricade of vehicles as automatic fire rains against the aging metal. Katie, I realise.

The guy that had discovered me missing is wearing only a pair of old, worn pants and from the waistband he pulls a gun that looks like a pistol with a silencer and an extended clip but when he opens fire, it spits rounds fully automatically. Katie's assault stops and for a second I'm worried that he's got her, but then she fires again afresh as she and the old f***s start alternating exchanging fire and ducking into cover. I realise that the others, unarmed, are running away to take cover over the hill where they'd sacrificed the biker. The three that are left are all focused on the shooter beyond their vehicles, so I'm able to crawl out from under the trailer to the edge of the shadows beneath the rear porch and, when they're all firing again, dart across to where there's a concrete barrier built to stop the hill landsliding onto the dirt road. That will allow me to get within five feet of the closest of the trio of men.

The cold air of the desert at night is harsh on my tender body and I'm quickly getting an intense headache, but it's helping me come around. I take a few deep breaths and the training comes back to me. When the guy stands up to fire again, I come out from my hiding place and use the saw to slice his throat open, fall backwards behind the barrier out of sight before the other two can realize what's happened, but then it takes me a while to fight my way out from under his corpse and yet again I'm covered in somebody else's blood.

I'm seriously going to need a shower if I ever get back home. And a blood test. But for now, I've got my hands, finally, on a firearm. I check the clip first of all. Damn it, only two rounds. And the thing doesn't look very well maintained. I'm hoping it's not going to jam on me, or I'm seriously a dead woman.

I hear the two old guys opening fire again, the one with the automatic pistol talking to the other to try and co-ordinate their fire. He's obviously the main threat. I risk sticking my head up and get a bead on where he is. When they stand to fire again, I rise too and pull the trigger. The weapon fires and the bullet hits him in the back of the head, but it attracts the attention of the last guy. I squeeze the trigger again, but this time there's no shot. He's got his gun turned towards me now and opens fire as I drop back down behind the barrier. He's got me in his mind now and starts walking towards me. That's his mistake.

A single, final gunshot puts him down and then, checking none of the guys that ran for the hills are coming back for me, I grab the automatic pistol and put both my hands up into the air over the hood of the closest of the RV's, keeping them up as I make my way slowly around into view hoping that it _is_ Katie and not some other Lost MC riders coming for their friend. Lucky for me she limps into view looking at me over the sights of a Scorpion mini submachine gun. She lowers it when she realizes it's me and I lower my aching arms. "Thanks for coming after me," I say.

"Thanks, nothing," she snaps as she limps towards me, pulling the cartridge from the Scorpion. "What about the other guy," she demands. As she gets closer I realize that all of her left side is scratched and bloody from falling off her bike during the pursuit of the truck bomb.

"If he's not already dead, he'll be wishing he was," I confirm. "You really don't wanna know."

She screws her face up in disgust. " _These_ f***s? I've got a pretty good idea." She checks how many rounds she's got left and curses sharply " _f***_!"

"It's gonna be okay," I say, like an imbecile, following her as she threads her way past the barricade of vehicles towards the trailer I've just escaped from.

She wheels around on me. "I'm undercover in the Lost MC and I'm _compromised_! My only hope of survival is that I get this guy back alive enough for him to vouch for me. Otherwise, if they find me, they're not just gonna kill me. They're gonna-"

"Relax," I snap, reverting to my Sergeant's voice, and she obediently shuts up. "You and I, together, we can sort this thing. I just need to check in with someone. You got your phone?"

She makes a face at me as she snaps an emphatic "no," befitting of my stupid question and then turns her attention to the weapons clutched by the dead guys. "How many bullets have you got," she asks me, stooping to pick up the shotgun.

I slide the extended clip out of the automatic pistol. White lettering just above the weapon's grip proclaims it's a Vom Feuer piece, additional wording above the trigger states 9x18 full auto. This is a new weapon and seems like it might be a good one, even though it's hampered slightly being 9mm calibre and not a .45. The extended clip has a capacity for 36 rounds but nearly half of them have been spent in the gun battle with Katie and the cultists. "Nineteen," I count.

"Three in the sawn-off," she says, sliding her right arm and her neck under its strap before kneeling down and picking up the pistol of the last guy she'd killed. It's a 9mm, same calibre as the Scorpion she's scavenging rounds for. "Thirteen nine-mils," she frowns as she transfers the rounds from one cartridge to the other. I help myself to the heavy revolver while she's preoccupied. This is more like it, a .44, all six rounds still waiting in the cylinder. I tuck it into the waistband of my panties as Katie slides the cartridge back into the Scorpion and glances across at me to make sure I'm ready before taking point, leading us back around to the rear of the trailer.

"Oh, sh*t" she curses before I see the state of him for myself; the guy's still alive, but without urgent help he won't be for long.

"F***," I agree. "Where are your wheels," I ask.

"Forget 'em. They failed on me, so I had to hike after you halfway across the county. Help me get him into one of the RV's," she says.

We take the biker between us and haul him up. He groans, cries, feels the terminal condition of his mortality. Something clicks in my head, something I saw inside the trailer. "Wait here," I say, and leave her holding him to dash back inside.

"What, are you _crazy_ ," she yells after me. Maybe I am, but there was something on the workbench I'm gonna need, medical equipment; bandages, gauze packs, a blood transfusion set.

Oh _sh*t_ , I just figured it out - the guy whose eye I shoved the key through... he was going to drain my blood, my _virgin_ blood, for the wounded guy in the back room. The realization almost makes me vomit again, but I hear the biker crying out in agony and fear and it shakes me to my senses.

I stuff the gear back into the bag it came out of, hook it over my shoulder, grab the Vom Feuer and hurry back to join them, help Katie hobble the guy into one of the RV's and set him down on the filthy bed inside it. She slides into the driver's seat and starts to hotwire it so I guess I'm playing Doctor.

"You know the Yellow Jack Inn," I ask her. That's the bar Inquisitor took me to last night.

"Oh f*ck no, we're not going there," she says. "I might as well shoot myself now and have it over with."

The engine squeaks and rattles into life and she starts it rolling as I hurriedly stuff and bandage the worst of the biker's injuries and set up the transfusion kit. It's a while before I realize he's talking.

"...gonna... gonna die. Don't matter... still... still... gonna kill _you_."

"Don't you go dying on me yet you f***," Katie yells from the driver's seat. "You an' me, we're goin' on a nice trip together. Then you need to die nice and slow and _painful_."

" _No_ ," he growls and then starts coughing up blood. Jesus, I'm trying to help him, but I think he's already out of time. He manages to get a hold of himself, raises an arm to ward me off and painfully hauls himself upright on the bed. "Dying... the Lost knows... _rat_..." Katie starts to yell at him again and he shakes his head. "No... no use to you," he wheezes, and collapses. I catch him and guide him down so he doesn't fall off the bed completely.

Katie looks back at us from the driver's seat, then slams her palms on the steering wheel. "F***!"

We're cruising over dirt roads, not even gone a mile when the engine begins to make a high pitched whining noise. "Oh, no, no, no no no no no..." she pleads, but it's no good. The whining's getting louder and we're losing speed. I crouch down and bring the Vom Feuer to bear. The biker grunts at the sight of it so it must have been his.

The RV dies completely. Katie desperately tries to get it restarted but it's a lost cause. "Come on, we've got to move," I say.

"We're in the a$$hole of nowhere," she complains. "More of them will be after us soon!"

"I know," I snap. "That's why we've got to _go_!"

She hauls herself out of the driver's seat and limps over to us and we flank the biker again, carry him between us out of the side door of the RV and into the cold night air of the desert. "Which way," she demands.

"I told you. The Yellow Jack," I say.

"What is _wrong_ with you? That's a Lost hangout," she complains, the biker groaning in agreement.

"Do you have a better idea," I demand. Her silence confirms her answer so we head off in the bar's vague direction. I have a rough idea where I am, even though it's been nearly a decade since I used to train in this desert. Had I been alone and not wracked with agony with every step I took, the walk would have taken me a half hour, tops, but with all three of us beaten and bloody and me stopping every few steps to scrape away our tracks in the dirt, it probably took us an hour to cover less than half the distance.

The cold air stings my bare skin. The biker is stark naked and feeling it too, and Katie, despite having the most clothing out of all of us, is still only wearing hotpant shorts, a cropped vest and high heeled boots that are completely unsuited to this territory. "Jesus, f***, it's cold," she complains.

"Keep moving," I instruct. "Fast as you can. The exertion will keep the blood flowing, protect us from hypothermia." That's what we try to do, but 'fast as we can' is barely a f*****g snail's pace, nursing injuries and dragging the dying biker between us.

Early on we found a gathering of trailers with a guy stood outside, smoking a cigarette under a glaring security light and we had to take a wide arc around in the shadows to make sure we weren't spotted. The occasional noise of coyotes and distant traffic keeps all of us on edge, but the silence in between seems overwhelmingly oppressive. The moon is obscenely bright this far away from any artificial light pollution.

We're only a couple of minutes beyond the sign for the Senora National Park when we become aware that an RV has stopped, maybe a hundred feet behind us and we hurriedly find a large rock to shelter behind. I try to lean out to get a view and realise my vision has been swimming for a while. I almost topple over and Katie has to grab me. That's when we remember I'm still feeding blood to the biker and she yanks the needle from my arm, takes the Vom Feuer from my shaking hands while I steady myself.

The biker is standing weakly against the rock and I feel him slide down onto me, unable to help himself. "Fffffuuuu…" he curses almost silently. I reach across myself with my left hand to hold him up, but I'm barely more able to stand myself than he is. Katie glances back at us and her eyes meet mine. In the state we're in, we're screwed if they find us, and we both know it, and now I'm struck by a horrible thought; I can't remember if I've kept up with covering our tracks.

Gradually their voices grow louder, but they're still too far away to decipher the words. Or maybe I'm just too light headed. Katie sets the Scorpion down in the dirt, far enough away from the biker that if he goes for it he'll fall and we'll have time to deal with it, and glances quickly around with the Vom Feuer held aloft in her right hand, immediately retreating back into cover and holding up her left hand with all five fingers extended. We wait for what feels like an eternity, trying to listen for their footfalls, the slight breeze sounding like a tornado in our adrenaline-blocked ears.

"There's blood," one of them calls loudly. "They're here!"

 _Sh*t, we've been made_ I panic and in my weakened state of mind I make my mistake. Before Katie can stop me I bring the revolver from my panties and swing out from my side of the rock, raise the weapon and fire. But because I'm still dizzy and light-headed from the blood transfusion and because my muscles are so wracked with all they've endured in the past twelve to eighteen hours, the recoil nearly makes me smack myself in the face with it and the shot fails to connect with any of the targets. The old guys yell at me as they scatter, and then they're shooting back but I can't find my feet to retreat back into cover and fall backwards, landing heavy in the dirt. In panic, I blindly fire another wild shot. The guys cry out in alarm, but it's another miss. _F***_! Get it together, Soldier!

While they're preoccupied on me Katie dashes out from behind the rock and fires three shots from the Vom Feuer, two of them connecting fatally with one of the guys. Then she switches to the Scorpion and depletes it with short bursts as she makes her way over to me and drags me to my feet and back behind the rock. I fire another shot while she's carrying me. This time I do it properly and kill a second guy, but there are three more.

"Idiot," she snaps, snatching the revolver and thrusting the pistol back into my hand. She strafes across to the other side of the rock as their fire punches it, reaches around and fires another two blind shots, before dropping it and bringing around the sawn-off, stepping back out of cover to open fire with that before they can reassert themselves. It booms once. Twice. Then Katie cries out and falls backwards, a bullet in her collarbone. "No," I scream and dart around my side of the rock, quickly spotting and wasting four rounds from the Vom Feuer on the guy that shot her.

All five of them are dead, but the noise of the firefight will draw more attention. I crouch by Katie and examine her wounds. Good news and bad, it's a through-and-through, so there's no bullet to fish out but she'll be losing blood and I don't have enough left to give her. I stuff both sides of the wound while she curses me for getting her killed. When I've got her patched up as good as I'm ever gonna get it, I grab the revolver and stuff it back into my panties and then help her to her feet.

"We've gotta keep moving," I urge, adding with all the confidence I can muster "we're nearly there." She makes for the biker. "Leave him," I say weakly, but after the sh*t I just pulled, I don't blame her for not listening to me.

It seems to take us forever as we stumble our way through the desert dirt, aware of sharp weeds scratching at our bare feet and ankles but too exhausted to take long routes around them, but gradually the highway comes into view. We've given up on covering our trail now, we just need to move. Katie and I are terrified of the cultists, or else the Lost MC, rushing up from any of the three hundred and sixty degrees of openness surrounding us and that's the motivation we need to keep going until we reach the road. Traffic is quiet at this hour as night gives way to morning but light pours from the bar just beyond. Getting across the road is the quickest the three of us have managed all evening, Katie watching to the left with the shotgun across her belly, me watching the right with the Vom Feuer extended out as far as I can straighten my arm.

We check that there's no bikes or vans parked in the lot and then we head inside, earning ourselves the attention of all the guys still at the bar, and of the woman behind it. I can see she recognises me, so I give her a nod. She points around back, towards the pool table and we drag the biker through the bar, set him down on a plastic chair at a formica table and then sit ourselves down with him. A couple minutes later, the woman sets three bottles of beer on our table. Katie numbly picks hers up and downs nearly half of it in one go before the bartender returns with a green first aid kit and starts better tending to Katie's gunshot wound.

I'm pretty out of it, so I don't know how much later it is when I realise we're alone in the bar now and that Inquisitor has arrived with Zaid Shirazi in tow, still wearing the same suit from when I'd met him earlier. After today, it clearly needs to go to the dry cleaners'. Shirazi politely requests two beers from the bartender, who has since returned to her stool behind the bar and has a shotgun resting across her lap, while Inquisitor sits down at our table, next to Katie, across from me and the biker.

His bad mood hangs around him like a storm but he asks in a quiet tone "are you ladies okay?"

"Fine," Katie replies, sharply. I stay silent, still feeling as guilty as I am for her getting shot.

"I told you there was a price," he growls at me. Kick me while I'm down, why don't you?

"If that price is a couple of hundred people going about their business, I'm not paying it," I snap at him and pick up my bottle to take an angry pull of beer. Have to be careful not to bang it against the table when I set it back down.

"Well, Henry Wood is happy with you, at least," he grumbles back at me before Shirazi slides into the last vacant chair and sets two glasses of beer down on the table. "Jefferies too, mostly. The cargo is secured and thanks to your actions he's not going to have a Sheriff's investigation into his potential involvement with a truck bomb, although we've lost a valuable asset from within the Lost MC..."

"I can fix that," Katie interrupts. "I've got someone who'll vouch for me."

" _He'll_ vouch for you," Inquisitor asks, bringing a squat pistol up from under the table and aiming it at the biker's forehead. Before any of us can react, or even _say_ anything, he pulls the trigger and the biker collapses backwards to the ground, taking his chair over with him and knocking my beer from the table, spilling over me as it falls to the floor and smashes near his corpse. Shirazi has stood up in shock, and so has Katie who's grabbed her shotgun.

"What the _hell_ ," she starts.

"They _already_ suspected you," Inquisitor growls before nonchalantly holstering his firearm and taking a drink from his own glass of beer. "Today confirmed it," he finishes after he's swallowed. "You're made. You're blown. You're out. Of course, if the bomb _had_ gone off, we could've put a lot of spotlight onto The Lost for it."

Shirazi turns his attention to Katie. "I've got your extraction all set up, there's clothes in my car-" he starts, quietly.

"I'll debrief Katie," Inquisitor interrupts. "Shirazi, do me a favor and get that into my trunk."

Shirazi stands up and struggles to hoist the body up and drag it away. Inquisitor grins coldly when Shirazi's out of our line of sight and drops his car keys onto the formica table.

Katie sighs and shakes her head. "You're such an a$$hole," she complains before swiping up the keys and getting up to go help Shirazi who has only just realized his mistake at the door, with an annoyed groan.

While they're both outside, Inquisitor slides a replacement phone across the table to me. "Try not to lose this one, or you'll have to pay for it," he says. I start to argue but he gives a quick shake of his head. "All the data from your old one has been updated automatically onto the new handset and the old one has destroyed itself. Nothing dangerous, just an electrical short that will render it completely unsalvageable. Try and keep it within fifty feet of your person at all times."

"What have you gotten me into," I ask him.

He gives me the merest hint of a grin. "Exactly what you wanted, Sergeant. Back into the fight."

"What fight," I ask, confused. "Against terror?"

"The fight for your country's interests. Which, if you didn't notice, are money and power." He sits back, picks up his beer and throws back nearly half of it in a single pull. "Those with money have the power. Those with power have the money. The USA is all about both, and nothing else."

I make a face. "What about the Constitution," I ask, disgusted.

"What _about_ the Constitution," he retorts. "Think anyone in Congress gives a rat's a$$ about representing the people? They're representing their own bank balances and they'll sell their parents to the corporations and the military-industrial complex pulling their strings. Don't fool yourself otherwise, Soldier." Then he sits back and picks his glass up again, says "do me a favor and call Harvey before he stops being a pain in the a$$ and starts being a problem."

I look down at the device and see that I've missed a half dozen calls from Shaun since I spoke to him last. The knowledge brings me some cold comfort so I hit the number and let him know that I'm safe. By the time I get done, Shirazi has come back into the bar with Katie. Her shoulder is better bandaged now and she seems to have some color back. She picks up and downs her beer while Shirazi says something quietly to Inquisitor who picks up and throws back the last of his own drink before telling me he'll talk to me soon. I take hold of his arm as he stands up.

"I want to have a talk with The Lost," I say. Katie's face falls, Shirazi registers surprise and Inquisitor's scowl deepens.

"That's a very _bad_ idea," he says.

"I know. But I want to talk to somebody anyway. There were some folks today I recognised. Folks that you and I served with."

He makes a face. "Some a$$holes, you mean." He sighs heavily, looks back over his shoulder for a few seconds before returning his gaze, briefly, to me. "I'll make some calls," he says and straightens up, gently guides Katie back towards the exit. He stops and turns back halfway to reiterate "but it's a bad idea," before the two of them head out. A few seconds later, we hear his car start up and drive out of the lot.

Shirazi takes a seat at the table opposite me, slides a paper shopping bag to me under the table and then straightens in his seat and picks up his drink. "You didn't spike it, did you," he asks me with a boyish glint in his eye before taking a mouthful without waiting for an answer.

"Maybe," I say when he sets it back down on the table before hoisting the bag on the seat opposite me and fishing out my clothes that I'd left at the storage unit earlier. He smiles at me before swallowing, then leans over the table a little more serious.

"Sorry we couldn't back you up today. Wood's happy with you, in spite of Jefferies' moaning. You did good." He sits back and watches me as I scoop out my clothes and stand up to put them on. That p*sses me off.

"Enjoying the show," I demand as I pull on and button up the pants.

He tilts his head slightly and actually f*****g thinks about it. "Yeah," he finally admits before taking another sip of beer. "I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but you aren't half bad. When you're not looking scary."

I stop and meet his gaze momentarily. "You mean, there's a right way to take that?"

He shrugs. "Take it anyway you like. I meant it as a compliment, but I'm not hitting on you."

"What, I'm not your type, either," I snap as I slip on the ballet pumps and then slide the shirt on. It's good to be getting dressed, but it's the being barefoot I like the least.

He takes another slow pull on his beer before he responds. "We both know you have no interest in either knowing or being my type. And anyway, I keep my business and my private life separate."

I finish pulling on the blazer and drop back down into my seat opposite him. I'm trying to think of something to say, but he beats me to it.

"I understand you being angry. I would be if I got dropped into a day like you've had today. You think the Army was hard, but you're not prepared for what comes after, I think you less than anybody. You can be angry with me if you want to, but tomorrow you and I need to go back to work and to have each other's backs."

"I've got your back," I snap.

"Oh, I know, you're a professional. Nobody's doubting that," he insists gently, putting his hands up to show that he means no offence. "We're a pretty tight team. We've all seen each other undressed. While we've not exactly bared our souls to each other, we know each other. Everybody has their… fit." He takes another pull of beer and adds "I really hope you can find your fit with us."

I stare quietly at the table for a while, my mind swimming with what he'd said about not being prepared for life after the Army. About finding the corpse of my Dad. About his letter. Shirazi recognizes the fact, finishes his beer and says quietly "come on, I'll take you home."

Shirazi has a black Sultan RS but it isn't anywhere near as subtle as the one we'd picked up earlier; this one is a low, wide-bodied street racer with a large intercooler, comfortable but enveloping sports seats and a large tacho gauge mounted on top of the dashboard. The noise it makes as he drives me home hurts my head after the last day or so, and gives Harvey plenty of notice of our arrival when he pulls it up outside the house on Sustancia Road and he's waiting in the doorway, pistol in hand. "Jesus, I thought you said you were _okay_ ," he gasps when he sees the state of me. He says something else but I can't hear it over the noise of Shirazi's Sultan driving away and, anyway, all I want to do is get in the shower.


	4. Chapter 4

For the second time in as many days I'm woken up by somebody buzzing the front door. Harvey's got it before I can even recall where I am, wrapped in the towel he put around me and under the blanket of my bed after he took me from the shower where I'd cried myself unconscious. The unmistakable booming tone of Henry Wood snaps my mind alert.

"Good morning Mr Harvey."

"You aren't taking her," he argues, with admirable conviction.

I can only imagine the look on Wood's face as I scramble out of bed and hurriedly struggle to pull on my clothes.

"Mr Harvey, can I give you some advice," his voice booms. The disdain is well disguised, but it's there.

"No," Harvey snaps. "You said she'd come home last night, _safe_ -"

"Sergeant Coleman is neither your relative or your lover," Wood interrupts, going ahead anyway. "You probably feel your attempts to… _protect_ her are in some way noble-"

"I'm here," I interrupt, hopping down the hall pulling my shoes on. Harvey turns towards me, firearm by his side in his right hand.

"Good morning Sergeant Coleman," Wood beams.

"You don't have to go with him," Harvey says.

"Oh, I'm not providing you a lift today, Sergeant," Wood says and pushes a bag through the narrow gap of door Harvey has allowed open. "I'm just here to deliver your property." The bag contains the unworn new clothes I'd bought yesterday and my service pistol which I'm glad to have back, despite having bought the Vom Feuer and the revolver home with me.

"I'm not working today?"

"Oh, I'm sure you will be," he replies. "You have the numbers for your associates, I'm sure one of them will be happy to drive you in until you have something a little bit more subtle than your… whatever the tank you drive around in used to be."

"So, _you're_ not working today," I ask him. _Something's_ amiss, can't hurt to ask about it. He's not wearing a branded uniform today, but a brown suit with a narrow pinstripe. Cope's suit yesterday was comfort, while Shirazi's was immaculately tailored. Everything about Henry Wood, his height, build, voice, car, radiates understated power, and the suit he's wearing is no different. It's no surprise Harvey's refusing to even speak to him without having a weapon in his hand.

He gives me a raised eyebrow with an amused half-grin. " _I'm_ working closer to SecuroServ than to their VIP's today. Yesterday's little… incident… has resulted in questions being asked. Above all, our organisation needs to ensure its discretion." He turns to go, stops, turns back to me. "I wouldn't recommend Mr Harvey's Glendale. Nicely restored it may be, but it has a certain drug dealer reputation." With that, he walks down the path back to his parked silver Benefactor and drives away. I close the door and turn around to find Harvey still watching from where the living room will be when it gets delivered.

"I'm guessing you _weren't_ a drug dealer," I say.

He shakes his head. "No." Spoil me with details, Harvey. "Listen, I'm not meaning to interfere-"

"Then don't," I say, then realize I might have been abrupt. "I'm sorry. I appreciate you having my back, but I'm a big girl. What happened yesterday was _my_ choice," I add in a softer, but still assertive tone.

He looks away, nods and goes quiet. He seems to be a sensitive sort, but he _has_ had my back so far. I just need to make sure the boundaries are set. When he pushes himself up from the wall he's leaning against he says "I'm going out for breakfast. You can come with me if you want. Otherwise, I can take you to a place I know, sort you out with some wheels, if you don't mind them being a little bit… second hand."

"Second hand, I can work with," I accept and put a hand on his arm for a second. "I'm just gonna freshen up and then we can go get some food, okay?"

* * *

Breakfast is from a chain coffee shop in Mission Row across the street from Legion Square which during daylight hours is far more friendly and inviting. I'm watching out the window as Harvey queues for coffee and assorted processed snacks labelled as food. There are no signs of the debauchery that goes on after dark as I watch business people and merchants trying to ignore the few homeless people that wander this far south from the bus station. I'm staring at their faces, wondering if I might recognise any of them when Harvey puts a tray laden with our breakfast onto the little table and drops into a seat opposite me.

"You were a cop," I guess.

He smiles, a little awkwardly. "I was."

"A good one?"

He takes a sip of coffee, burns his lip and hisses an "ouch," and checks he's not spilled over himself before answering "not really." I stare at him until he relents. "I got forced out on the day I was accused of doing something I didn't do."

"Which was," I ask, insistently, before my phone chimes.

"Killing a heist crew and stealing an armored truck carrying five million dollars," he says plainly, like, no big deal.

"Jesus," I say, almost involuntarily. Partially at what Harvey's telling me and partially at the message I've just received from SecuroServ; for my services yesterday, they've just wired me $9500!

"Yeah," he agrees, oblivious, his own mind wandering back down the proverbial memory lane.

"Obviously you cleared your name," I guess, quickly stuffing the phone back into the left pocket of my new jeans that I'm wearing, along with the leather jacket and ash-colored T-shirt I got yesterday. They feel quite stiff and restrictive. I'm guessing, and hoping, they must give a little as you wear them in. "Otherwise you'd be on the run, right?"

He tilts his head to one side, working out how to answer. "They tried to prosecute me, but they had no case. They got me on a trespass charge instead but the evidence went missing, and since the only cop who seemed to have seen it turned out to be dirty…"

"Wait," I say, holding up a hand. "Where were you trespassing?"

He grins at me. "The station I used to work."

"What," I exclaim, incredulously. A couple of people turn their head briefly in our direction in annoyance. I lean across the table and speak in low tones "you're wanted for a high profile robbery and you get caught trespassing in the one place the cops are most likely to be on alert for you?"

He tries again with his coffee, more successfully this time. "There was a bit more to it," he tries to explain. "But yeah. Like I said, the case fell apart, but I'm not going to get to be a cop ever again." I start tucking into some of the food in front of me, a concoction of pastry, icing, dried… fruit? I guess?... and cinnamon. It tastes better than I want to admit but the coffee isn't worth a damn and certainly not the price that the boards above the counter suggest Harvey has just paid for it. I'm chewing when Harvey adds "I do still get some of the _perks_."

* * *

After we've eaten the majority of the foodstuffs and I've drank as much of the overpriced dishwater coffee as I can bear, Harvey takes me in the Glendale to a garage in Burton with a logo spraypainted in purple over its shutter door. It opens partially and a balding, heavyset guy wearing a red and white check shirt and denim cargo shorts groans at the sight of Harvey. "What's wrong with you now," he complains.

Harvey raises his arm across his stomach to point at me. "My friend needs some wheels. I wondered if you had a… what do you call it, a 'trade-in' you wanted rid of?"

The guy scowls, purses his lips like he's about to curse Harvey seven ways until sundown but instead he shakes his head and stomps back into the garage. Harvey invites me to head in first so I do, and he follows. The guy pulls a tarp off a car at the back of his shop, an old Japanese coupe that's definitely seen better days. It has a set of six-spoke wheels in a candy red that contrast sharply with the dirty white bodywork and the stained interior, and probably would cost more on their own than the whole car was worth.

It was possibly the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. "What is it," I ask, trying not to sound revering. The guy arches an eyebrow, looks across at Harvey who shrugs.

"I know it's in rough shape," he complains, "but this is where the smart money will be in the next couple years. Older model Annis Elegy."

"It's not gonna collapse on her and leave her sat on the freeway is it," Harvey asks.

" _F*** you_ man," the guy complains at him, then turns to me. "Let me show you," he says and guides me around the car. "It came in last week. I've already done the plates and the VIN," he explains, then pops the hood with two external catches and raises it. "As you can tell, the motor isn't exactly stock. Getting it out of a current model Elegy wasn't a walk in the park… come down here," he goes on, crouching down and then lying on his back, producing a torch from his breast pocket. I set myself down on the ground with him and let him show me the underside. "The body's a little tired but it's solid, man," he says. I know enough of working on the Imponte with my Dad to see he's telling me the truth; there's no rot under here or in the arches, and when I check the dipstick in the engine, the oil is clean. There's no white residue under the oil cap either. "How much," I ask, trying to keep my voice level. In spite of myself, in spite of everything I've ever been taught, damn it I _want_ this car.

"Well, I paid seventy-two hundred for it, but I've got at least thirty-three and a half in the engine," the guy starts.

"Get out of here, that's extortion," Harvey interrupts.

"You should talk," the guy scoffs. "And last I heard, you ain't a cop no more."

Harvey gives him a wry smile. "Oh, does that make _street racing_ in a _stolen car_ legal?"

The guy curses. So _that's_ how Harvey's got him. "When does this statute of limitation bullsh*t expire?"

"We've got plenty of time," Harvey assures him.

The guy looks to the car, then to me, back to the car. "Alright," he concedes. "Cost price on the engine was ten-five. I need to make a _little_ profit. I can go down to fifteen."

Harvey is going to argue, to try and squeeze the guy further, but I'm realising he could be an asset That's my excuse, at least. "I'll take it," I say.

Shaun raises an eyebrow at me while the guy suddenly gets real grateful, writes me down his number in case I have any problems, but I still know something Harvey doesn't; another day like yesterday and the car's already bought and paid for, with gas money. My phone starts buzzing as the guy chatters something about making me a pink slip.

"Good morning Sergeant Coleman, it's Eliza. I'm hoping you'll be coming back into the office today?"

"Sure," I say. "Just picking myself up some wheels."

"That's good to hear," she says. "Mr Jefferies has another business arrangement that we would appreciate your help overseeing."

The guy is handing me a, literally, pink slip when I terminate the call and push the phone back into my pocket. "Are we done here," he asks Harvey.

Harvey nods, then turns to me and asks "work?"

"Yep. I gotta go. Thank you for this," I say, as much to the guy as to Harvey.

* * *

The car is as exciting to drive as it had looked, and just blasting it between traffic lights is enough to put a smile on my face. Fortunately my phone doubles as a navigation system so I'm able to find a gas station to brim the tank, which I'm pretty sure it's gonna drink through quickly, and then I head to the office, joining the other three at Jefferies' board table at oh-nine fifty-four, and I've already abandoned the leather jacket on the passenger seat of the Elegy, it's way too hot.

Eliza connects her laptop to a large flatscreen TV and brings up a map of Los Santos. "Okay, today we have a cargo being flown in. Get to the drop off and light a flare so they'll know you're there. The plane will then circle around and drop the crates by parachute. Get them into the van, two of you inside, two escorting. There should be _three_ crates. Get them to the backup warehouse location _here_ ," and she brings up an out-of-the-way location out in Davis. "With The Lost aware of our main warehouse, we've had to quickly invest in some smaller properties to hide our goods. Once they're inside, we'll need you to take shifts guarding it until the sale is negotiated."

"What are we collecting," Cope asks.

"You don't need to know," Jefferies snaps. He's wearing jeans and a shirt today but it's only partially buttoned and he's barefoot. "Just get my cargo and get it where it's going so I can finally make some god-damn _money_!"

Eliza makes herself as small as she can as she unhooks and collects up her laptop while the rest of us stand and make our way to the elevators. "I'll be watching the transaction, as usual," she calls after us before Jefferies yells something at her and she scurries off to satisfy whatever whim it was he wanted serving.

"How are you feeling today, Sergeant," Shirazi asks me as the elevator doors close to begin our descent. He's wearing a slim-fitting dark blue suit with an iridescent sheen to it, black shirt, with oxblood shoes, belt and pocket-handkerchief.

"Fine," I reply, attempting to ward off further conversation. It doesn't work.

"Hope they paid you," Rayhan Cope adds, clearly mistaking my business demeanour for a bad mood. He's in charcoal trousers and waistcoat, with a white shirt and a charcoal tie and he's carrying a matching jacket.

"They paid me," I admit. "I was very surprised actually."

"We all are," Aneesha Stamp cuts in. She's wearing black pants, patent black heels and a smoky gray blouse with a single frill running down it's centre. "Good job it's down to the company and not to Jefferies, or it'd be another story."

"Yeah," Shirazi agrees. "If he ever actually _wrote_ us a cheque, it'd bounce."

The elevator doors open and we step out into the underground parking lot. "You're riding with me," Cope tells me and leads me towards an olive green Bravado Rumpo van, a long-wheelbase window van modified with raised suspension and large all-terrain tyres. He gets in the shotgun seat, so I guess I'm driving. Shirazi is driving the black Sultan we'd got from the storage facility yesterday and Stamp is in her white Feltzer, and I follow the two of them out of the lot onto the street before they lead me through city traffic that, whilst it _has_ eased slightly after the rush hour, wouldn't be noticeably better to anyone not local to Los Santos.

Cope asks me for my phone and sets the GPS before securing it into a dashboard mount so I can see a highlighted route. "That's the directions to the warehouse," he explains. "When we've got the cargo in the van, follow that route and don't stop for _anything_."

"Are we expecting trouble on this run," I ask as I push the van hard to keep up with Stamp and Shirazi. They've got a knack for deftly weaving through the traffic which is fine in their high-powered coupes, but the van is noticeably heavier and more lethargic.

"Given Jefferies' luck this past couple weeks or so, I'd expect trouble if he went out to buy groceries," Cope grimaces, checking in the wing mirror his side, and then leaning forwards to glance up into the sky.

"Is it The Lost, every time," I ask him, then curse and pull sharply right on the wheel as the van almost side-swipes an expensive German saloon in the left lane.

"Not _every_ time, but mostly," he confirms.

"Who's the leak," I ask, earning myself a dirty look.

"I'd say you, but you've only just showed up," he complains, then looks away. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be harsh. Just… I trust those guys, alright? If someone's leaking intel, it's not one of them."

I tilt my head to one side, chew my lip like my Dad and then my Drill Sergeant both used to give me sh*t for. "That only leaves Eliza or Wood."

"I know," he sighs. "And I don't like either of them any better for it."

"Jefferies won't be ripping _himself_ off," I argue.

He runs a hand up the back of his head under his hair. "Whatever's going on, there's more to it than meets the eye," he agrees. "Game face on, we're nearly there."

We're coming up to the East Vinewood racetrack. Stamp and Shirazi have pulled a bit of a lead on us but then Eliza comes over the speaker on my phone.

"Something's gone wrong, the plane is coming down! Authorities are already alerted, get there _fast_!"

"Sh*t," Cope curses loudly and grabs a carbine rifle from the back seats, checks it's loaded and clicks off the safety as I floor the pedal and abandon any attempts at being careful with the thing. The two cars head South, back towards the city and as we turn to follow them we can see the plane falling from the sky, smoking heavily from its starboard engine before it disappears behind the hills.

"It's coming down behind the dam, hope you're ready for some offroading," says Cope, checking all around us for any signs of incoming threats.

First Shirazi smashes his way through a traffic barrier, and then Stamp follows. I'm through it a couple of seconds later but they're already building a head start around the dirt road that'll take us around the hill and into a bowl at the Land Act Reservoir. Rumor has it there's a nuclear bunker here, leftover from the Cold War, but I don't know anybody who claimed to ever have actually been in it. Finally we see the plane, and the shrill wailing of sirens isn't far behind us. Shirazi is out of his car clutching an assault rifle, sweeping it around in all directions while Stamp approaches the plane peering over a handgun that appears similar to the Vom Feuer I took home with me this morning. Cope sprints across to her while I find a carbine rifle in the back and join Shirazi in looking for threats. Cope and Stamp have only just got the plane's hatch open when those threats make themselves known.

"Contact West," I warn and open fire as shots bounce off the plane's hull, narrowly missing my colleagues who are both scurrying for cover, Stamp sprinting back towards her car, Cope ducking inside the plane and joining me and Shirazi in returning fire to cover her.

"Time is against you, you need to get that cargo ASAP," Eliza pleads over our headsets.

"Then get us a f*****g _visual_ and tell us where to _shoot_ ," Cope demands from inside the plane. He fires another couple of volleys and then turns his attention to dragging one of the crates towards the hatch.

"Stamp," I call, in between firing bursts. "Come over here and move the van closer!"

"What? Why me," she complains.

"Because your gun doesn't have the range," I yell. I see her curse, but she knows I'm right. "Okay, Shirazi, Cope, we're going to cover her, okay?"

"Concentrate your fire at about 24 degrees West," Eliza advises.

I sweep my rifle in the direction and I see them. "Now," I yell and we open fire while Stamp darts over to join me at the van, surprisingly quick and agile for the heels she's wearing. Even without my leather jacket I'm feeling very hot already, and it's making my body feel even heavier. Maybe it's the injuries I got yesterday.

"Oh, sh*t," Shirazi curses as Stamp drops down next to me behind the cover of the van. "Stamp, Cope, check it out."

Cope peers around the hatch of the plane briefly, ducks his head back in and agrees quietly "oh, _sh*t!_ "

"What," I demand as the return volley pelts our cars, the plane, the van.

"That's another SecuroServ detail," Shirazi explains. "Angelica Cunningham. Jayden Quinn."

"Abraham Wheeler," Cope adds.

"And Eddie Ross. Ant Macfarland's detail," Stamp finishes, matter-of-factly.

"F*ck," Shirazi complains.

"It makes no difference," Stamp snaps back at him. "You answer to your VIP first and foremost. All other considerations are secondary, remember?"

I get the sense the men are going to argue with her but we're interrupted over our headsets by Jefferies angrily calling Eliza a bitch before she cries out. I'd been no happier than they were about going up against colleagues from another detail, but now I feel a surge of rage and I have to pour it into firing a return volley in order to maintain control both of my emotions and of the situation. The rapid fire of my carbine scarcely drowns out Jefferies' barrage of verbal and physical abuse and Eliza's pleading, before she makes it back to the mic and quickly tells us "cops are responding to shots fired, you need to get out of there no-"

"You need to get my cargo," Jefferies yells at us, as we hear her crying out in pain again.

I look around the faces of my colleagues and quickly see we're all on the same page. "Jefferies," I demand, as calmly as I possibly can under the circumstances. "Can _you_ track police movements?"

"What? That's not _my_ f*****g job," he starts to snap.

"Then put _Eliza_ back on the comm and _don't interfere_ with her work again or you and me are _really_ gonna have a _problem_ ," I tell him.

All of us can feel the tension of his rage over the airwaves. But finally he relents. "Get me my _f*****g cargo_ ," he screams. A few seconds later, Eliza's back, trying to reassert herself.

"G-guys, whatever your planning, do it now," she says. We don't need her to tell us the other crew are abandoning their assault; we can see them retreating for ourselves. The wail of sirens is piercing the air, we don't have time for plan A, or B, probably not even C.

"Eliza, keep watching those cops," I order before glancing in turn at each member of my own team and ordering "abort."

Jefferies starts another foul mouthed tirade so I rip my headset off. Cope dives into the van with me as I climb back into the driver's seat and gun it back towards the highway. Two cop cars are coming straight for us and I aim the van between them, keep my foot planted on the gas pedal.

"F***," Cope curses and drops as low in his seat as he can. I do the same as one of the cops gets out the passenger side of the car and splinters our windshield with his shotgun, but then we're through, almost ploughing headfirst into the trailing fire engine. I swerve us around that and then have to fight then van from going off the edge of the road and plunging down off the drop. Stamp and Shirazi are stuck to our six as we wind our way back down towards the street, but as soon as we hit the tarmac we split up in three different directions as cops swarm in on our location, a couple of ambulances screeching to a stop, unsure what to make of the chaos.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Cope scowls, reloading his weapon.

"We need to lose the heat. Eliza, keep your eye on the crash site. Soon as they move the cargo I want to know what it's in and where it's going."

"Are you insane," Cope explodes. "You want to let the cops take the stuff? What then, we attack them?"

"Yep," I agree. "Trust me. I have just the thing."

* * *

It took us longer to lose the cops in the van than it did Stamp and Shirazi in their high-powered performance cars. It's the middle of the afternoon when Cope and I pull up at the house on Sustancia and I raise the garage door so he can see the Imponte.

"Holy sh*t," he appraises. "I reckon that'll do it."

"I'll draw the cops' attention," I explain. "You guys secure the cargo and get it to the drop off."

"There might be a better way to do it," Cope says and turns back towards the van. "Follow me."

He leads me to the Los Santos City Hall on Occupation Avenue in Alta. We park up at meters across the street, pay our parking and cross over. It doesn't take long for Cope's, uh, _contact_ , to head out and spot us. He's immediately nervous, and defensive. Young, attractive in a wiry sort of way with spiked blonde hair, but he has a definite air of femininity about him. "Rayhan, you said I could _trust_ you," he starts.

Cope holds up his hands placatingly. "Easy Dev, easy," he says soothingly.

The guy nods in my direction. "Who's this? Bought her to rough me up if you can't blackmail me, huh?"

I spread my hands and shrug while Cope puts a hand on the young guy's shoulder. "Dev, you've got this all wrong. Hear me out, okay?" When he seems to have calmed down, Cope introduces us. "This is a colleague of mine, Winter Coleman. Winter, this is my _friend_ , Devon Reed. Devon here is one of the programmers for the Los Santos Traffic Control System."

Devon pulls away from Cope and raises his arms, again on the defensive. "Know what, I'm gonna admit to what we did," he blurts. "Wanna ruin my reputation? Whatever. I am who I am. I'll _own_ it."

I'm a little taken aback by how the conversation has turned, and Cope turns briefly to me, holds up his palm to indicate me to hold back and let him deal with it, which I'm obviously gonna do anyway. "Dev, you've got me all wrong. I don't wanna expose you. Well, I do, but just for fun later on, you and me, you know? I'm not going to blackmail you at all, alright?"

"Alright," Devon repeats, uncertainly.

"Alright," says Cope. "Like I told you, I need a favor. A favor for a favor. You give me _one red light_ , I'll give you all the photos and I'll let you delete them off my phone. Only copy I got, I swear down. _And_ we can do it again," he adds, so quiet I can scarcely hear. "I _wanna_ do it with you again…"

Poor Devon's breathing is visibly ragged. "One red light," he stammers.

"That's all," Cope encourages.

"And I get _all_ the pictures."

" _All_ the pictures," Cope assures him.

"You… you really liked it," Devon asks.

"What, you couldn't tell," Cope asks. He's grinning as he turns back to me and whirls a finger around indicating that we're moving out, but he calls back "I'll call you later."

We head down the steps back towards our vehicles. I'm wondering how to phrase my question and he can tell. "That's my _private_ life, Sergeant," he says. "I'd like to keep it that way."

* * *

One red light. It's eighteen forty-six when Eliza confirms that the cops have finally loaded the cargo into a truck and it's on the move, heading to the Vinewood precinct. The dirt road to the dam brings them out into East Vinewood right onto Vinewood Boulevard so we only have four intersections to work with. Five, if you count the ramp to the Los Santos Freeway that curves North-East up past the racing track and casino. We don't wanna be too close to the convoy and we don't wanna be too close to the station, we just want to isolate our truck, so I'm waiting in the Imponte at the third intersection, a sidestreet called York Road. The plan is I'm gonna hit the gas when the truck's approaching and force them to swerve into the parking lot for the casino which is straight ahead of me, right opposite where York Road feeds out onto Vinewood Boulevard.

Shirazi's our first spotter at the first intersection. When Cope's friend Devon turns the light red, Shirazi will do all he can to block the street, and the cops' view of it.

Stamp's at the second. She'll basically be giving me the go signal and coming from the rear when I make my move to block off the entrance to the lot.

Cope in the van is waiting at the fourth. He'll be blocking traffic from the West and helping Stamp box in the truck while we convince the cops to give it up.

They're not expecting our attack so it's a simple box truck. Stamp has a carbine for intimidation, but if there needs to be any shooting, I'll be doing it with my taser. I was very firm on that part of the plan; we're _not_ hurting the cops.

The location for this little operation puts me uncomfortably close to The Lost MC clubhouse that SecuroServ shot up the night Inquisitor took me on his tour of the city. They've already torn down the Police Crime Scene tape. Cops are too overrun to ever wrap the case up and The Lost are too wild to keep out of their own turf, too violent to stop seeking their own justice. I have a knot in my stomach anyway. The proximity to them is making me wanna throw up. _Call yourself a soldier, Coleman?_

Shirazi's voice comes over the headset. "Heads up, down they come." I turn the key in the ignition and the Imponte's supercharged V8 roars to life. "Red light, the tail's trapped," Shirazi confirms a second later.

I slide the car into gear and let off the parking brake, getting ready to plant my foot on the hammer.

"Second intersection," Stamp confirms. "Pulling out."

"I'm at the light," Cope confirms. "Get ready Coleman… Alright, _now_!"

I plant it. The tyres spin and the back end fishtails for a second, but the car quickly builds speed, too quickly to change its fate as Shirazi yells "blue lights, they've made us!"

The truck's put the hammer down! I hit the brakes but it's too late and I slam helplessly into the centre of the box truck, no doubt wrecking the chassis and rendering the thing undrivable. _Shit!_ Now we're gonna have to unload the cargo into Cope's van!

The cops from the truck are already climbing out as I kick my driver's door open. I'm ready with the taser, but I hear gunshots, realize it's Stamp as sickening clouds of crimson erupt from the driver before she turns the weapon on the squad cars that were escorting the truck. Cope takes out the passenger from the driver's seat of the van before swerving around the Imponte's back end and bringing it to a stop at the rear of the truck. I throw the taser into the passenger seat in frustration, shift the Imponte into reverse and move it to block off the front of the box van in case reinforcements should come from the Vinewood precinct. Then I get out and head towards the rear of the truck to help with the cargo, drawing my service pistol in case there's still police resistance behind us. There isn't. "I told you we weren't hurting the cops," I yell at Stamp who makes a face at me.

"Hold on, I'm trying to jam the cell coverage in your area," Eliza's voice comes through the headset.

Stamp snaps something at me but I'm too furious and my head is spinning too violently to listen to her. I'm helping Cope heave our crates out of the box truck and slide them into his van. We've got the second one in when she grabs me and whirls me around, yells something about me living in cloud cuckoo land.

I'm about to ball my fist and punch her when Shirazi steps between us. "We don't have time for this," he urges. Stamp and I glare at each other for another few seconds before she storms away to the driver's seat of the van and I return my attention to helping Cope with the final crate.

"I know you didn't wanna do that," Cope says, and from the strained tone it sounds like it doesn't sit well with him either.

"Just get to the f*****g warehouse," I say. Shirazi's hanging back awkwardly. "Watch their asses, make sure nobody gets in their way," I tell him. He chews his lip pensively, gives me a curt nod, and heads away to his Sultan.

I'm just climbing into the Imponte when Eliza cries "sh*t, sorry, somebody called on a landline, cops'll be on you-"

She doesn't need to finish. I hear the sirens. A second later I see the cars. I pop a couple of shots off, harmless rounds that will bounce off the bodywork. I just want to make sure I've got their attention. Then I drop into the Imponte, slam the door shut, fire it back up and punch it.

The car has survived the impact but not without some damage. It's pulling to the right and slightly down on power, but I can get onto the Freeway going North with a good lead on the convoy of cops on my six. With no lights, I have a bit of cover of darkness as I exit at the next ramp, back up past the racetrack and pull a left, over the freeway and back South towards the city. It's a good lead, sure, but they're gonna catch up. I need to pull something else outta my a$$.

I'm crossing Vinewood Boulevard again and cops are screaming towards me from my right, zeroing in from the Vinewood precinct to try and cut me off. I keep going South, past the intersection with Spanish Avenue, aiming for Elgin Avenue which can either take me West or South. But that's no good; up ahead, cops are racing Northwards towards me so I'm forced to swing it left around onto Popular Street and then I pull a hard right to take the ramp onto the Elysian Fields Freeway.

The car is struggling. I'm bleeding power and the cops are catching up. I'm considering abandoning it here and seeing if I can get jack another ride. And then I spot my exit.

The road is curving left around to the East, but just as it straightens, there's a broken section where it looks like a car has smashed through the side. It's got a work barrier across it, and a board that will work as a ramp. I have no idea how this is gonna play out, but I mash my foot to the floor and aim for it, giving the car everything it's got.

My stomach joins my heart in my throat as asphalt gives way to thin air. Below me are the lights of the industrial heartland of La Mesa, ahead of me the looming bridge of San Andreas Avenue and now the car starts to fall.

Down it goes. Down such a very long way.

 _I'm going to die_ , I think. And then the wheels slam down onto the ground of the Los Santos storm drains. Hard.

The car's still rolling when I come round and all my back, neck and shoulders hurt. With some effort, I'm able to push open the door as smoke billows from under the crumpled hood. I fumble desperately with the harness holding me into the driver's seat until it finally gives way. Flames are now licking out from the engine bay and I can smell the gas tank leaking. I have to use all my limbs to force myself out of the car, falling painfully down onto the hard ground, but I can't let the pain of that slow me down. I force myself up onto my feet and hobble away as fast as I can will myself as the fire completely engulfs the car.

There's a tunnel to my left with heavy graffiti all around it I limp through it as fast as I can manage up the incline until I come out on the street in La Mesa. Only then do I realize Eliza is trying to talk to me through the headset.

"…get Shirazi to break off and pick you up," she's saying.

"No," I urge. "Keep him on the cargo. I'll be in ouch shortly so you can tell me where to rendezvous."

A little way to the North is an old diner. Casey's, the sign above it proclaims. I limp my way to it and head inside, spot the door to the ladies' bathroom and go to clean myself up.

The image in the mirror is not a pretty sight. I'm covered in scabs and bruises from yesterday and I've got fresh blood from my nose running down to a swollen lip under a black eye. My body screams as I stretch my muscles while I wait for the water from the faucet to run warm and then I start to wash myself. I'm still visibly beaten up after I've gotten myself clean. Worse, my T-shirt now sports blood stains too and the leather jacket is still on the passenger seat of my Elegy so I can't cover it up. The La Mesa Police Station isn't far away and it's not going to be long before cops come into the diner searching for me.

My plan to escape is immediately foiled as I make my way back out of the bathroom. "It's for payin' customers only," a dour-faced middle-aged waitress complains at me. "You wanna menu?"

"Sure," I reply, trying not to show my annoyance, or let her cotton on to the fact that I'm scoping out the other patrons. There's a plump middle aged man with a nasally voice arguing with a dark haired woman in a T-shirt decorated with lightning streaks at a booth by the window, both with laptops open in front of them. Another overweight guy wearing tan pants and a check shirt sits alone at a table eating enough food for a family of three and there's a guy in a suit seated at the counter. The waitress is back before I can size him up, yammering something about specials on the board and two of the four pie options being out of stock, and what do I want to drink. I ask for coffee, black, no sugar and lean against the counter to check out the staff. Two guys cooking in back, two waitresses, one significantly younger and friendlier with the overweight guy on his own than the middle aged woman is with me.

But it's not them I'm worried about. I take another sideways glance at the man in the suit. He's staring intently at a menu, but something's not right about him. The clothes are too upmarket for a place like this. I glance behind me and see there's a Grotti Carbonizzare drawing a crowd out front, no less subtle for its white hue. Definitely out of place and when I look back at him, he's staring at me intently with a small black gun in his right hand under the menu.

Finally, I place him. One of the other SecuroServ guys pointed out to me at the reservoir earlier, the one called Eddie Ross. He's standing up now, bringing his gun up in my direction.

"Gun," I yell loudly. If this f*****r's gonna murder me, I want witnesses, but I rush him and pin his gun hand down with my left hand, punch at him with my right. He blocks and headbutts me, forcing me to stagger backwards and my vision temporarily fails as I border on the edge of unconsciousness. I think he's broken my nose. When I come around, the guy in the check shirt is coming to my aid. He's big and looks like he can handle himself, but unfortunately Ross is a professional and can handle himself better. He manages to break himself free from the big guy's bear hug and hits him in the face with the butt of his gun. The younger waitress cries out in horror, distracting Ross enough for me to grab his coffee cup so that when he turns back to me I'm able to throw the hot liquid into his face. He grimaces in pain and staggers backwards and again I make for his gun but he's got enough presence of mind to swing his arm away from me. I aim another couple of punches at him, leading with my left because I'm right handed. The left connects, but he manages to duck the right and fires a shot towards me. I'm fast enough to have seen it coming and duck out of the way. Not so much the dour-faced waitress who collapses to the ground clutching at her midriff as her uniform turns an ugly dark red flood. I look back in horror at Ross whose own expression mirrors mine, but then he raises the gun at me again.

"Freeze," a sharp voice barks, and both of us are distracted. There's a cop in the doorway, his own weapon aimed on Ross. Ross tries to swing the gun in the cop's direction but these guys were already on alert, looking for me; the cop's instincts kick in and he puts two bullets into Ross fractions of a second before Ross gets his own shot off. The cop collapses, screaming, as blood erupts from his shoulder. Ross is dead, both rounds having drilled straight into his skull. It's only a few seconds before the cop's partner is with him in the doorway, yelling at us over the sights of his own gun not to move before helping his buddy up and out of the line of fire. Quickly I search Ross' corpse, finding his car keys and then I turn my attention to stemming the flow of blood from the waitress' wound, yell at the younger one to get me napkins or a first aid kit. She returns with both and I package the exit wound from the first aid kit before applying pressure to the entry point. "Put your hands here," I instruct the young waitress in a firm tone of voice so in her shellshocked state she simply does as she's told. The cop comes back in just as I'm straightening up. "Alright, an ambulance is one the way, what the hell happened here," he demands.

"I saw this guy pull a gun," I reply, pointing at Eddie Ross' corpse. "I don't know if he was gonna rob the place but he pointed it right at me."

"That's right," a voice from the corner booth chips in. The cop and I both look in the direction it came from and we see the woman in the lightning T-shirt standing up. I'm not sure why she's adding credence to my story, but nonetheless I appreciate it. "We saw the whole thing."

"Right," the cop says uncertainly, turning back to me. "So, you, what, decide the best thing to do is attack him head-on?"

"Hey, she tried to help us," the big guy in the check shirt adds.

 _My Dad didn't raise no victim_ I want to say, but I don't. "I panicked… I just… I just got away from a guy like that," I say, quietly. Immediately the lie has the desired effect. I feel bad for pulling this sh*t but I can't get boxed in here, so desperate measures.

"Oh, Jesus," sighs the cop, while the trucker's face falls. Before either of them can offer me a hug, I hold up my phone.

"Officer, I gotta check on my kid, I need to call the babysitter, I need to make sure they're okay and let them know…"

"Sure, you can step outside. Just don't leave until I've got your statement and your details, alright," he interrupts, before turning his attention to the waitress still trying to hold the life inside her boss, where I abandoned her. "Can you tell me what you saw?"

I ignore her stammered, scared reply, push outside, use the key I'd stolen from Ross to unlock the door of the Grotti and perch side-saddle on the driver's seat as I attach the headset over my ear.

"Sergeant Coleman," Eliza starts.

"Everybody watch you're a$$," I interrupt. "One of Ant Macfarland's crew just tried to kill-"

I don't get to finish. I hear a gunshot and Cope curses "Jesus Christ," followed by the noise of the van's engine being revved hard.

"Sh*t, ambush at the drop-off," Shirazi cries. "Looks like they got Stamp!"

I climb properly into the Grotti, spark up the engine and reverse it as fast as it will go out into the street before I've even slammed the door closed. "Eliza, get me to where they are," I scream.

"Okay, you wanna head South," she says and her voice is strained, like she's about to cry. I turn the wheel full lock to the right and punch the gas as the cop bursts out the door from the diner yelling at me. "Take a right," Eliza starts, then quickly adds "no, cancel that, go left, there's cops!"

The Grotti takes to the direction change effortlessly, although the grated gearbox takes me some getting used to. Eliza's directions take me East out of La Mesa and then I'm heading South again on El Rancho Boulevard, past my house on Sustancia Road before Eliza yells at me to pull a sharp right onto Amarillo Vista before almost immediately turning left, so tightly I have to use the handbrake to get the back end around in time. It's a right at the intersection, then another left to take me down to a residential area encompassing a patch of recreational ground overlooking the picturesque oilfields and then I'm out onto El Rancho again heading West into South Los Santos. I can't see the telltale lights of cop cars anymore, but Eliza tells me to slow it down and shortly after crossing the Carson Avenue intersection with Jamestown Street, she has me pull right into a narrow backalley between Jamestown and Roy Lowenstein Boulevard. Slowly, quietly, I cruise the Grotti over the Macdonald Street intersection until the backalley feeds out onto Innocence Boulevard and then Eliza has me dump the car at the back of a rundown place called the Billingsgate Motel.

Eight minutes and thirty four seconds later, Shirazi's Sultan pulls into the lot. I approach it with my gun aimed at the windows until I'm certain it's just Shirazi inside and then I climb in next to him and he takes off.

"Where are the others," I ask.

"Turn off your phone," he instructs. I do. When he's convinced he says "Stamp's hurt bad. We didn't have time to call in one of our own medics, we had to take her to the hospital."

"Where's Cope," I ask.

"He's with her."

"Jesus, what about the cargo," I exclaim. He grimaces.

"Yeah, we're fine, thank you," he admonishes me quietly.

"I'm sorry, I… it just seems, after all this-"

"I know. I'm sorry," he interrupts, and sighs. "It's at the hospital. We figured it'd be relatively safe there for a few minutes, until Morris can get here."

"Who's Morris," I ask.

"One of Cope's friends. You remember the helicopter yesterday?" I nod. "Yeah, well, Shane Morris was the pilot. We all know him."

"What about Eliza?"

His eyes flick briefly in my direction before he returns his attention to the road. We're taking a pretty convoluted route to the hospital, but I guess we're all a little paranoid after today. "She seems pretty cool. But _someone's_ selling our intel."

I say nothing more on the subject. Clearly I'm going to be a suspect, given how relatively new I am to the team. I expect I'm going to be interrogated at some point but there's not much I can do about that now. There is one thing I want to ask though. "You guys seem pretty tight. Did you have another member of your team, before me?"

"Yeah," he admits. "Cass Melendez, you'd have liked her. Tough Hispanic girl. She served in the Army too, she was a Ranger."

"What happened to her," I press.

"What _always_ happens," he replies. "Before her we had Ed Mercer. Cope replaced Annie Hahn before that. Right now we're just hopin' Stamp won't end up the same way, or Jefferies will only have _me_ left from his original crew."

Finally, we're pulling into the darkened parking lot at the back of the Central Los Santos Medical Center. Shirazi parks up next to the van and we get out. Immediately someone puts a gun to my head. "This must be Morris," I say.

"Yeah," Shirazi admits quietly, almost apologetically.

"You need to tell me _everybody_ you know in Los Santos. Everybody you've talked to in the past few days," Morris says sternly.

I hold his eye. "Inquisitor. I don't know his real name, but he got me this gig. Some bikers that ended up dead at their clubhouse. Henry Wood. These guys…"

"Tell us about the guy you live with," Shirazi asks gently.

"His name's Shaun Harvey," I start.

"Oh, sh*t," says Morris, and slightly lowers the gun. "Former _Detective_ Shaun Harvey?"

"Shaved head. Permanently dishevelled. Folks say he stole five million from an armored truck heist. He's got dirt on a guy handling hot cars at a custom shop. I bought an Elegy from him," I finish.

Morris puts the gun down. "She's cool."

"You know this guy Harvey," Shirazi asks him.

"Yeah I know him," Morris grins. "I'm his AA sponsor. Sorry about this Sergeant," he says to me.

"It's okay. I'd be doing something similar," I admit.

Morris and Shirazi say their goodbyes and then he heads inside the hospital. Shirazi lights and smokes a cigarette while we stand in awkward silence for a few minutes until Cope joins us. "We need to get off the streets," he says. "We've got to assume _all_ our safe locations are compromised."

"I've got a place," I say. Quietly. Firmly. The last place I wanna take them, but the only one I have.

* * *

It takes us a couple hours to get there. The men shared a glance but didn't say a word when they saw my Dad and I left them to it inside. I didn't wanna go back in there. I asked Shirazi if I could have one of his cigarettes and he gave me what was left of the pack because he said he was supposed to be quitting. I'm outside in the moonlight, still regretting not having my jacket when eventually Cope joins me.

"When I told my folks I was joining the Navy, that I'd be training to be a SEAL, they didn't bat an eyelid. I spent six years battling drug cartels from a dinghy. It's fine for their son to be risking his life for the Stars and Stripes, but tell them you're in love with another man and they lose their f*****g minds!"

I turn my head in his direction, cigarette end glowing where the stick hangs from between my lips.

"Parents," he goes on. "I hated them. Still hate them for not accepting me the way I am."

"You read the letter," I demand angrily, catching on.

He holds his hands up defensively. "Not deliberately. I only got a glance, but I picked up enough to get the gist."

Neither of us knows what to say beyond that, so we stand there in silence until we hear a car approaching, then until we can see the beam of its lights. Only as Inquisitor pulls his Dominator up in front of the house does Cope say quietly to me "we should bury him," and then he walks towards the driver's side of the Dominator, making a wide arc around it. I stay stood in front and Shirazi comes out of the house, staying on the opposite side of the car. All three of us have our guns in our hands. Inquisitor doesn't seem fazed by the fact as he climbs out, shuts his door, walks slowly around to the front of his car and perches himself on the hood. "Where's the cargo," he asks.

None of us says anything but I point in the direction of the barn.

"We've hooked you up a buyer, short notice. Jefferies wants it selling _tonight_."

"We're a man down," argues Shirazi.

Inquisitor looks in his direction briefly, seemingly with distaste, then returns his gaze to me. "I could assign you a replacement but it's not looking like you're in the mood to accept the help from me."

I'm not fully sure why, or how, probably a memory triggered by Inquisitors tone. I'm wondering if I'd be able to find somebody I once worked with from the Army. I'm about to suggest them, at risk of losing _all_ credibility, when Shirazi sighs and grudgingly admits "I know someone that might be able to help."

"That's it then," says Inquisitor, clapping his hands together and standing up. "Details will be coming through shortly. Turn your damn _phones_ back on"


	5. Chapter 5

We waited until we'd got to a sleazy liquor store on the Western outskirts of Sandy Shores before I turned my phone on. When the job details came through from Eliza, we learned that we were going to be doing the exchange at sea; there was a yacht waiting just far enough South to be in International waters but come the break of dawn, they'd be gone. Most of Jefferies' cargo, i.e. the truckload recovered from The Lost MC yesterday, had been loaded onto the only boat they could get at short notice, but Henry Wood was overseeing the loading and warned that it wasn't fast and it wasn't in good condition. It was clear that we were going to need all the support we could get so Shirazi called his contact from the payphone outside the liquor store, told them to bring some sort of package with them.

While he did that, I signed into my old Army email account which they hadn't got round to shutting down yet and sent an email to Dakota Rune. I thought it would be a long shot, that I'd not hear from him this week, if ever. But by the time Cope came out of the shop, carrying three new burner phones, snacks and a bottle of bourbon to take the edge off, I'd already received a response with a cell number.

He answered on the third ring. As I would find out, that was Dakota's thing. One of Dakota's things, anyway. I wasn't sure if he'd still talk to me after what had gone down in Iraq, namely the death of his brother to an IED and an insurgent ambush, but he seemed quite happy to hear from me and he was both willing and able to help. I know he has pilot experience, but when I met him we were both attached to the same Infantry unit securing the same checkpoint. It hadn't worked out so well.

After I sent a text to let Harvey know I was safe and well, I turned my phone off and hit the road again. The drive took us a few hours because we didn't go direct. There'd been too much interference already. We'd taken dirt roads West across the Chiliad State Wilderness until we got to the Alamo Sea and down to the liquor store at Sandy Shores. From there we cut South, down through the Tongva Valley and then West again through Banham Canyon until we reached Chumash. We kept our phones off, relying on local knowledge and a road map from my Dad's house. The plan was I'd get us to the highway and Shirazi would take over the driving from there.

* * *

Shirazi slept while I drove and Cope made sure I stayed awake. "Why did you join the Army," he asked me.

"I just was always going to," I replied. "My Dad served, and the plan as far as I could remember was that I would too," I replied. "Soon as I was old enough for him to let go of responsibility for me."

"You can't really have been Infantry though," he says, getting at the fact that I'd been in the thick of it while, strictly speaking, at the time women weren't _supposed_ to be allowed in frontline combat-arms roles, despite Donald Rumsfeld's assertion that 'you go to war with the army that you have.' That was probably more intended to excuse the criminal lack of protective equipment we had over there, but if it helped commanders on the ground over there get more bodies into the combat, well, every soldier they could get was welcome. Just not necessarily by their male counterparts.

"No," I agree. "I was attached to my regular Infantry unit in some bullsh*t Civil Affairs capacity, but I'd had the same training, had to carry the same gear, the same provisions, same weapons, and I went out with them on the same patrols. I'm as much Infantry as they were."

I see him nodding in my peripheral vision, realize that he's trying to work out what to say to that, but I can't focus on him too long because my eyes are starting to burn again.

"I always liked the action movies," he says, surprising me with the change of direction. "That's what made me wanna be a SEAL. My parents blamed the Navy for me being gay, but I knew before that. Lemme ask you something, do you have an idea of what gay people are like? From your Dad, from the Army, anything?"

"Yeah," I admit. "The impression amongst the guys in the Army though was like…" I tail off, unsure how to describe the Army impression of a homosexual. "Well, not like you."

He smiles at that. "I know what you mean. There's this stereotypical image folks have of what gay people are like. Effeminate to an exaggerated extreme."

"Yeah," I agree.

"That's what my parents thought I'd turn into," he says with a grimace. "When I was a kid, I was good at sports. I played football. I didn't back down from a fight, ever. Think I'm suddenly gonna turn around and lose my sh*t over a fingernail?"

"If it helps, my Dad thought gays were all Marines," I say.

That makes him laugh. "Better not hear Soo-Jin hear you say that," he advises, with a glance over his shoulder to check that Shirazi's still asleep. "I know there are people that embody the prejudices people have, but that's not how _I_ am. I'm just a normal guy, that happens to be attracted to other men."

"There _is_ a stereotype about gay men dressing well," I say, looking down at his suit and Cope laughs.

"Yeah, that's not me either. Shirazi helped me put my wardrobe together. He, by the way, is _definitely_ into the ladies."

My turn to laugh. "Yeah, I found that out last night."

Cope leans away and arcs an eyebrow. "He didn't hit on you, did he?"

"No," I say. "He just wasn't shy about watching me putting my clothes on."

"I was gonna say," Cope sighs, relaxing a little in his seat. "He usually keeps his work and his private life separate, but it's not a secret he sees a _lot_ of girls."

"What did _he_ do before all this," I ask. There's something very likeable about Shirazi, but even last night he'd not been forthcoming with conversation.

Cope's silent for a second. Turns around to check Shirazi's still asleep. When he speaks again, it's in a hushed tone. "Shirazi was born in Iraq. His family came here, fled persecution after the first Gulf War. When we went back to depose Saddam, he'd went over to work with the CIA. Y'know, all he wanted was to see peace in his homeland, see democracy restored, Sunni and Shiite Muslims living side by side. Instead, he had to infiltrate an early militant cell. Stopped more than 30 IED's killing us and civilians before his cover was blown and he had to be extracted. And then the CIA dumped him, lost interest, cut him loose and left him on his own to get on with his life, after all the sh*t he'd seen." I notice Cope's eyes glistening as he finishes the story. "Y'know, if I'd have done _half_ the sh*t they made him do, I'd probably f*** every woman I got the chance to as well."

"How did you two end up working for SecuroServ," I ask.

Cope shrugs, stares out of the window for a while and I guess he's just going to leave the question unanswered. He surprises me a little while later when finally he replies. "I was considered briefly for Seal Team Six, but then word of my sexuality got out somehow. After that, I was sidelined from everything and eventually I got bored. Wood recruited me soon as I stepped foot back in town. Well…"

I want to hear the rest of it, but this is Cope's story. It's up to him if he wants to tell it, so I don't push it. I don't have to wait as long this time. "Somehow my folks found out I was gay before I got back home. I was gonna tell 'em but I got to their house and quickly found out I wasn't welcome. My Dad tried to beat me so I broke his wrist. Mom just stood there wailing over and over again what had she done wrong. I haven't seen or heard from 'em since, I went to a bar and Wood was somehow waiting there already for me. That was four years back, now. Wood recruited Shirazi too."

"I'm sorry," I say, genuinely.

He shrugs. "Parents."

"Yeah," I agree.

I drive us in silence a few more miles before Cope says "we'll help you bury your old man, if you like."

* * *

Late night gives way to early morning by the time we reach the Great Ocean Highway. We'll be taking that down into Vespucci and then East into Little Seoul where Shirazi's contact will join us before we cut further South to our destination, a dock just South of Dutch London Street under the shadow of the La Puerta Freeway bridge. Shirazi's awake and driving now while Cope sleeps. Shirazi insists he's refreshed and that I should sleep too but I tried and found that I couldn't. Too much stuff going through my head.

"What _is_ your type, Shirazi," I ask him.

He grins at me. "Female."

"That's not strictly true, though, is it," I ask, turning around in my seat to sit side-saddle, so that my back's resting against the door and I'm looking straight at him.

"Isn't it," he asks, glancing over at me quizzically.

I spread my arms, as far as I can in the van. "You wouldn't do me."

He flashes that grin again. "Oh, Sergeant Coleman," he says, slowly, like he's realising something. "I thought I made it clear the other night. I don't mix business and pleasure. If that wasn't the case, I'd hit on you. _Right_ away."

I'm not sure how to reply to that, or how I feel about it, so I look away out of the driver's window as Shirazi gently cruises us left across three lanes to exit the highway towards Vespucci. As we climb the ramp up, I spot more of the hollow-looking pr*stit*tes that had haunted me when Inquisitor took me out on our night drive.

"Long way for a person to fall," Shirazi acknowledges, noticing me watching one as we cruise past. The mood is sombre for a minute or two after that so he changes subject back to the conversation I'd abandoned. "So what's _your_ type, Sergeant?"

"I don't know," I sigh, subconsciously tucking a strand of hair that's escaped over the course of the day from my ponytail behind my ear.

"Oh. You do, but you're not ready to tell me," he grins, misunderstanding it for something else. "My money's on Cope. You seem quite comfortable with him."

"That's because he's not a threat," I protest, and the both of us laugh quietly.

"Okay, what about this Harvey guy you live with," he asks me.

"Shaun," I ask, incredulously, but then I stop, unsure what to say. "He's… he's okay. A little bit twitchy though, like he's never relaxed. I don't know."

"Alright, tell me about who you've been with before," he says, aware that he's awoken a possible realisation that hadn't dawned on me yet.

I screw up my face. "Apparently I'm a virgin," I say, recalling the freaky guy that had been planning on harvesting my organs at the RV. Oh, yeah, he'd been wrong about that. The memory of his hands on my flesh makes me sit properly in my seat and fold my arms defensively across myself.

"Oh, hey, sorry," Shirazi starts, but I shake my head.

"It's okay. Rough couple of days is all," I say. "First guy was this redneck kid called Theodore. Theo, everybody called him. Not too bright, but he had beer, and a car and he was gentle. I kind of used him a little bit, never saw him again after that." I shut up then, not sure if I should continue. It had been against rules, I could have been chaptered for it. And, of course, if word had gotten out, I could have been branded the way female soldiers brand another girl that fraternises with a male colleague. But then again, this is _Shirazi_ I'm talking to, so I figure may as well let it out. "Then it was a guy in the Army," I admit, and I still feel the shame of it. "Nothing serious… just needed to let off a bit of steam. An IED took out a couple of the team I was attached to, and then we got pinned down in a firefight, contact on both sides. I thought I was going to die that day, we all did-"

"Where was this," he interrupts.

"Baghdad," I reply and he grimaces. "So, you know, never anything serious-"

"Best way," he interrupts. "Serious can get you _really_ hurt." I'm trying to figure out how to respond to that but he stops me in my tracks. "Heads up, we're here."

I look out of the window and see that we're pulling into a strip mall where a woman is waiting for us on a parked motorcycle. I _assume_ it's a woman; she's wearing knee length boots with armored knee pads but a plaid miniskirt under a dark blue leather blouson jacket with quilted armor padding on the shoulders and forearms, two rows of buckles at the waist and collar, but she's also wearing an opaque black helmet. Long purple hair escapes from underneath the helmet, trailing down her back. Shirazi stops the van alongside her and she passes him a package through the window, then we roll through the parking lot to the other exit and the biker picks up our tail. From here it's less than five minutes to the dock.

"Tell your pilot channel 6," Shirazi says, handing me a radio handset with a hands-free headset. The noise of the motorcycle behind us rouses Cope who sits up and rubs his eyes, then checks that all our weapons are loaded, ready to go. I turn on my burner phone and send the text to Dakota Rune, then turn my radio on and push the speaker into my ear. A couple of seconds later, I hear Eliza asking nervously "hello, is anyone there?"

"We're here," I say. "Don't use names, stick to callsigns… I assume we have callsigns," I add, glancing over at Shirazi who smiles at me.

"Simple numbers," he says quietly so the radio won't pick us up. "Base is One, I'm two. Three," he adds, pointing at Cope, then at me "Four. Five's behind us. Six is your friend in the air."

Henry Wood is waiting for us at the dock. Shirazi's friend didn't follow us in though, she's sped off elsewhere. Behind him in the water, our ship looks even more underwhelming. "I'm glad you could make it," he greets us. "Any news on Miss Stamp?"

"None," Shirazi venomously retorts before Cope or I can get a word out.

Wood takes it without argument. Clearly, he gets it. "You can probably see the ship we managed to get isn't going to be setting any speed records, but it should hold together, as long as you don't take _too_ much damage."

"Jesus, we're _still_ expecting hostility," Cope argues.

"After the past week or so, I wouldn't rule out anything," Wood concedes as, behind him, SecuroServ uniformed guards approach the van to load the cargo we've spent the day securing. "You know the drill. SecuroServ has loaded the cargo, and we've got the ship while it's here. Once you step on board and get out into the water, our responsibility ends and it's up to you. There'll be a bonus in it for you if you make the delivery." He turns his attention to Shirazi, then me. "I understand you've bought in… accomplices. I'm afraid we can't extend financial renumeration to either of them…"

"I have my own arrangement with her," Shirazi says. Wood turns to me.

"I'll work something out," I say.

I'm not able to read his expression in the darkness, it looks like it could either be amusement or distaste, but nonetheless, he maintains his familiar demeanour. "Very well. Good luck," he says and checks behind him that the SecuroServ guards have finished loading our crates. They have, and without a word to us or to Wood, they disembark the ship and leave, splitting in all directions. Wood sighs heavily and walks away to his own car. We watch him go until we're alone.

"Is your guy in the air," Cope asks me.

I turn on the radio and ask "what's your present location Six?"

The amusement in his voice is obvious even over the crackle of the radio. "You'll be hearing me in three… two…" We don't hear one. A few seconds after that we see his plane whizz over us and out to sea.

"Where's Five," I ask when the noise of the engines has died down enough for Shirazi to hear me.

"She'll be rendezvousing with us when we hit open water," he says. "Yo, Cope, you sure you can drive this thing?"

"No," argues Cope with a sardonic grin before he marches across the gangplank to board our tub. I know Cope's already checked it, but I make sure my carbine is locked, loaded and ready to go, remind myself that I've got both my spare clips and then Shirazi and I follow him onboard. I take cover at the bow, Shirazi finds himself a position on the upper deck in the shadow of the wheelhouse where Cope is at the controls, taking us out. Overhead we hear, and then see, Dakota's plane heading back towards us. "Nothing between you and the target," he radios. "There's some activity over to the East that I wanna go take a closer look at."

"Understood Six, over," Cope acknowledges. "Five, what's your status?"

"Firing up now," a female voice responds. "Pick you up in five."

"You've got just over an hour until first light," Eliza reminds us. "Once that comes up, the buyer will be gone."

"We've got this," Shirazi assures her but as the three of us on the boat exchange a glance, it's clear neither of us is sure at all.

"One, are you seeing anything your end," I ask.

"Nothing," Eliza confirms. "I'm sorry, I'm almost completely blind in this."

"Nothing you'd be able to do anyway," Cope cuts. "Alright guys, radio silence unless absolutely necessary."

For five minutes, we hear nothing but the throb of the tub's engine as Cope guides us gently, agonisingly slowly, towards the open water of the sea. I make out a shape on the horizon as we approach and keep a bead on it until I realise it's Shirazi's contact. She's changed out of her biking clothes into a wetsuit and joined us on a Seashark jetski. She's got a Hawk & Little submachine gun strapped across her chest.

Now that we're at open water, Cope opens the throttle fully. The pace is barely any better.

"Couple of boats taking to the water about five knots East of your location. Could be something," Dakota radios.

"Hold on," Eliza says and we can hear the clicking of her computer keyboard. "I can see them on satellite, but I can't get in close enough for an ID…"

Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe it's the quiet, and the miles of emptiness in all directions except behind us. Maybe it's just that I'm still missing my jacket that's on the passenger seat of my Elegy in the underground car park below Jefferies' office, but I feel the hairs on my neck standing to attention, a wave of steady unease mingling with the calm. I'm looking out for the boats Dakota's warned of, but they're obviously too far out for me to see yet. But my mind begins to drift and once again I find myself thinking of my Dad. My Dad and his letter to me.

It's my fault my Mom died. His letter said it wasn't but that he blamed me for it anyway, couldn't help it. That he'd been so sure he'd have a son, couldn't ever escape his disappointment in having a girl. That finally, I was ready, that he'd done everything he could for me and that I no longer needed him. It hits me with the weight of a semi-truck and I can't stop the loud sob that everyone hears in their radios. And that nobody responds to.

Not until a minute or so later when Shirazi calls out a heads-up.

I wipe my eyes with my thumb so I can see clearly and raise my rifle to watch the black specks on the dark horizon as slowly they grows in size and begin to take shape. We're just getting the faint sound of their engines' noise when Eliza comes over the radio. "There's a helicopter gunship taking off. Odds are you've got incoming, watch out!"

"Rules of engagement," I ask, watching as the two boats split up, one heading for our bow, the other coming for our stern. They're both still well out of range of our weapons.

"If they come for you, take no chances," the familiar booming tones of Henry Wood comes back.

This is more like it. I'm back where I belong. I feel that familiar tingling deep in my gut, a heady mix of _sh*t's about to go wrong_ and _sh*t's about to go DOWN!_ Adrenaline is fighting the training for your self-control or otherwise. I don't need to check over at Shirazi to know he's feeling it too and so will Cope in the wheelhouse. Probably so too the woman, Five, on the jetski, so far keeping in the darkness at the starboard side of our boat.

Early on my father taught me, when you're on a boat; there's no _port left_ in the bottle.

I'm watching these two boats, well actually I'm closer to the stern so I'm watching the one heading towards our six, and it's like I'm right back in Iraq, aside from we're on the water and not in some crumbling dusty war zone haunted by kids traumatized by the things kids should never have to be traumatized by.

"Update; the chopper's coming right at you," Eliza urges before I hear the familiar rattle of automatic small-arms and immediately Shirazi and I both open fire at the boats. There's two riding on the one I'm aiming at. I get the driver pretty quick, but then I'm forced to take cover as the passenger peppers us with automatic fire more of the calibre of the carbine I'm carrying. For a brief moment, I watch Shirazi returning fire with the boat he's fighting with and then the raining of rounds where I'd been stops and I take the opportunity to lay down return fire of my own. Raise my head above the cover of the gunwale and see that I've missed, and the passenger has now shifted the body of the driver and is taking control of the boat himself. I fire a few more rounds, but the boat speeds around and I'm unsteady, not familiar with the movements of our tug in the water. "F***," I cry, before I'm forced back into cover by incoming fire.

Shirazi turns his attention briefly from his own firefight to assist in mine, lands a couple of shots on the boat's hull but not enough to nullify the threat, but then he's forced into cover himself.

Then from the starboard-side we hear a short burst from Five's sub-machinegun before she opens the throttle on the jetski and zips around the stern of our boat. I risk a glance and see she's succeeded where I'd failed. She's now engaging the three-man crew of the other boat and while she draws their fire, Shirazi and I focus our own weapons on them. Quickly we manage to put all three down, although not before they force Five to abandon her jetski into the water. Shirazi cries out something I can't quite make out – probably her name – and rushes down the stairwell to come and join me at the portside gunwale, watching intently, neither of us daring to breathe, until finally, she clambers back up onto it.

Our relief is short-lived. The thunder of the helicopter seems to surround us and as we look behind us we see it coming menacingly after us, a black beast that seems to consume rather than fly through the air. It opens fire with its chaingun and all we can do is dive for cover and pray to not get torn apart.

" _Sh*t,_ " Cope curses with a ferocity that surprises even Shirazi. The next thing we hear as the chopper zooms over us is the spitting of Cope's rifle as he depletes his cartridge at it from the wheelhouse, but the rounds might as well be stones for all the impact they have on the helicopter's armored bodywork.

"Sh*t, Base, we've got nothing for this," I yell into my radio. I'm watching the chopper as it circles around in the air to come back at us, trying to spot any weakness. All I've got is the glass, but even that will be reinforced against small arms fire like ours.

"Speak for yourself," an unfamiliar female voice calls back and then the sky lights up from behind us as a rocket whizzes overhead. "Sh*t," she curses as the helicopter banks and the rocket sweeps by, just far enough clear to escape any damage. But it's bought us time. Shirazi and I both unload at the helicopter's windshield while the pilot steadies it, but then the cannons open up and we're forced to dive for cover again.

"We can't take much more of this," Cope yells as the cannon falls silent again, the chopper coming overhead so we're once more out of range of its weapon. Already we're taking on water on the lower deck, the heavy artillery having punctured our hull.

Another noise in the air joins that of the chopper and as we watch, Dakota's plane whizzes past the helicopter. To us it looks dangerously close, and the chopper pilot is forced to take evasive action once again to avoid a collision.

The distraction buys the Korean woman, Five, all the time she needs. Another rocket lights up the sky and this time she doesn't miss.

Immediately the helicopter starts to spin around on its axis but for a second that seems to stretch out like an eternity, it maintains its altitude. But only for that second. And then it's nose drops towards us and it plummets down, hitting the sea barely clear of our beleaguered tug, the wildly chopping blades forcing us to take cover again as they propel water and debris at us like errant bullets before, finally, it sinks under the surface.

"Base, anything else on our tail," I demand.

"Seeing nothing," Eliza's voice nervously stammers.

Beyond me, Shirazi is already on his feet and surveying the damage. "How far out are we," he demands over the radio.

"Another couple of knots, give or take," Eliza confirms. Shirazi looks at Cope, Cope at me. The uncertainty in her voice matches the expressions on their faces.

"How long," Cope asks.

Eliza sounds sick. "Twenty nine minutes."

There's only one thing for it. I'm gonna have to get wet.

"Five, are you still on your jetski," I ask.

"Nope," she radios, sounding pleased with herself. "I've got one of their boats, but the jetski's lashed to it."

"Come pick me up," I tell her her and start to peel off my shoes and my jeans.

"What are you doing," Cope asks as he and Shirazi watch me undress, one with horror, one with casual interest. I'm sure you can tell which is which.

"We're not going to make it in this thing. Get the cargo on deck. Five can take the first load to the rendezvous. I'll go get the other boat and come back for the rest."

"I'm not trusting you with my jetski," Five argues. " _You_ can take the first load. _I'll_ go back for the other boat."

The three of us rush down to the cargo hold. Cope and I work together to haul out crates one at a time to Shirazi who slides them across the deck towards the gunwale. We've got five of the twelve out when we hear the engines of Five's boat and when we bring it out onto the deck, Shirazi is helping her load them precariously into the boat. The body of Jayden Quinn, another of Ant Macfarland's team that we'd encountered earlier at the Dam remains prone where we'd killed her in one of the passenger seats. Neither Shirazi nor the woman show any mercy towards her as they drop one of the crates on top of her corpse, and then they turn in my direction. "Sergeant Coleman, let me introduce you to Lance Corporal Soo-Jin Mun, US Marines."

"Should have known you were Army when I saw the way you shoot," she says with the slightest hint of a grin as she extends a hand and shakes mine firmly. "You were in Iraq?"

"Yeah," I say. "Were you?"

"No, I've been in Afghan since 06 until a few months ago, running with an FET."

FET: Female Engagement Team. Particularly useful in Afghanistan because local women won't talk to men. Some cultural thing. My Dad taught me there were places in the world where women were thought of as inferior and trained me accordingly so if I ever found myself in such a place, I could definitively disprove their bullsh*t. He warned me that the military was one of those places.

"I like your hair," I admit, as I help her and Cope drag the last crate over the gunwale and on to the boat.

"Thanks," she says. "First thing I wanted to do when I left was to reclaim my own image from the Corps, you know?"

"Sure," I say, but I don't really know at all. "Think this is going to work?"

The boat's looking worryingly low in the water and there's barely space for me to squeeze in to drive the thing.

"Keep your speed up but don't go hell for leather. If you hit a wave too hard, get too much air, you'll lose half your sh*t over the sides," she advises, then puts a hand on my shoulder. "You've got this, Soldier."

"One, time check," I radio, ignoring the double-edged comment and making a note of the time on my watch.

"Twenty two minutes," Eliza radios back. No more time to waste.

I squeeze myself into the boat, start the engines and open the throttle gently. I need to be careful. The water's choppy as hell, I'm woefully inexperienced with a boat and if I go too far over or under a wave, we're finished. I'm trying not to watch the seconds ticking away on my watch but nonetheless I'm painfully aware of just how much time is against me. But I mustn't panic, despite the adrenaline coursing through my body trying to convince me to do just that.

A minute passes. Two, three. A wave comes along that takes me by surprise in its vastly increased size to the ones I've encountered so far and I'm momentarily swallowed by it, soaking me through. The cold hits me immediately, almost overpowers me as I come out the other side and I nearly lose control of the boat and lose a couple of crates over the side. I shut down the throttle, bobbing up and down on the surface for a second while I regather myself. And then I gently pull back on the lever again to build my speed back up.

I can see the darkened vessel that's our buyer on the horizon now. It's so tempting to open the throttle fully and race to it I can barely stand it. My hand almost involuntarily tightens on the lever and I have to chastise myself for being so foolish.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the ship gets larger as I approach until I can see it clearly. See the men coming out onto the deck with assault rifles casually slung under their shoulders, watching me intently as I approach. They look me over thoroughly as I draw up alongside them, then instruct me to climb aboard as they lash my boat to the side of their ship. I do, and I'm pulled onto the deck and told to stand still while I'm patted down for hidden weapons, with scant regard for my dignity. They find my switchblade where I've tucked it into my underwear and take it from me. Once they're satisfied, I'm invited to take a seat on a deckchair while they unload my boat.

I hear the engine noise of the other boat coming. Won't be long now before the woman, Soo-Jin joins us with the rest of the stuff. We've made it. It's going to work. But then all Hell breaks loose.

"Down," one of the deck-hands yells, caught halfway between the ship and my boat, before the burst of automatic fire shreds his body and he plummets into the water. The other guys cry out and open up while I'm forced to plant myself on the deck. A second later, one of the guys falls dead next to me.

Only one thing to do. I grab his weapon and join in the fight. This boat's quick and nimble, some form of single-occupant dinghy and as I look up to return fire, I recognise yet another one of Ant Macfarland's crew driving it, the woman Angelica Cunningham. Four of us are firing back at her. None of us manage to score a hit. She does. Now there's only three of us.

"Five, where the f*** are you," I scream into my radio before once more opening up with my rifle. I'm vaguely aware that she's cursing at the sounds of the firefight but I can't make out her exact words, and then I'm forced to drop to the deck again as once more Cunningham sprays wildly in our direction. As soon as her open weapon falls silent, I haul myself back up and watch her over my weapon's sights, fighting the urge to spray wildly in her vague direction and instead line up my shot. Squeeze the trigger to release a single round. The shot hits her in the forehead and she drops from the dinghy into the water with a loud splash while the ship zips haphazardly away.

"Get her off," the Captain orders the two deckhands he's got left. "Pull up the anchor. We're out of here."

"Wait," I say, but all three rifles are aimed at me.

"I should have known better," the Captain growls. "Get off my ship or we'll throw you off."

Putting up any kind of fight now will be suicide so I drop the gun. The three of them relax slightly, so I feel safer in trying to appeal to them further. "Please, you don't know what we've gone through to get this close-"

"I don't care," the Captain interrupts, firmly. "Get off my damn ship!"

I stand my ground and instead start to peel off my T-shirt, nought underneath but my army tags. Their unease spikes rapidly.

"Jesus, what do you think we are, pirates," one of the deckhands complains.

"I've got a wife and kids," the other argues. "Feeding them is the only reason I'm out here!"

They're clearly missing the point, but the Captain stays silent, holds up a hand to shut his men up. He's seen what I'm wanting to show him, all my cuts, bruises, welts, scratches and scars from the past 48 hours. "Please," I implore again, softer this time. I can't really believe I'm doing this, feel vaguely disgusted with myself for playing this card, but like Rumsfeld I'm going to war with the army I have. I make no effort to hide my discomfort.

"Get your clothes back on," the Captain orders quietly, relenting. "One minute. Then you're off my ship and we're leaving."

"Hear that," I demand into my radio as I pull the T-shirt back on. "One minute. Don't leave me freezing alone out here for nothing."

The three men and I stand in uneasy silence as we each alternate between scanning the horizon and checking the time.

Thirty seconds pass, each one feeling like a sharp dagger of ice piercing into my heart.

Forty. I don't think she's gonna make it.

Fifty.

And then, finally, we hear another engine approaching and the two deckhands turn their attention to the sound. The Captain instructs one of his deckhands to make sure I don't move. The guy raises his weapon at me so I simply raise my hands in surrender.

"You're late," the Captain complains to Soo-Jin as they tie her boat to theirs and repeat the process of hauling her onto the deck and checking her for weapons like they did with me. She tries to resist and gets firmly planted back where they stood her by the deckhand, two rifles aimed at her, and then she and I are made to stand facing each other, nose to nose, under the watch of one of the deckhands while the other works with the Captain to haul up the crates.

"Why are they so p*ssed, didn't you give them bl*w j*bs while you were taking your clothes off for them," she asks me accusingly.

"Would you rather I let them leave," I snap back at her. "You probably don't have anything invested in this, but _I_ do."

Her expression doesn't change. "Maybe you should think about the Unicorn instead, I hear they're hiring. It'll be safer for you."

"You two shut up," the deckhand watching us over his rifle snaps, so we spend the next however long glaring at each other. F*** her if she thinks _I'm_ gonna look away. _I_ handled this sh*t, _not_ her.

When everything's finally aboard, the Captain has the deckhand not holding us at gunpoint bring him a satellite phone from inside. "Shipment collected," he says into it when his call is picked up. "Wire the payment." And then, finally, Soo-Jin and I are firmly ushered back to our boats. They get me to the gunwale, but I hold on with both hands to the railings, resisting their insistent shoving. "Give me back my switchblade," I demand.

I hear the guy muttering under his breath behind me, but the Captain snaps at him "do it."

I take it when it's thrusted towards me, secure it back in the side of my underwear where they took it from and then climb off the ship of my own accord. Soo-Jin raises an eyebrow and tilts her head at me before she takes off. The expression has changed from the one she wore while we'd been stood nose-to-nose. I should f*****g think so, too.

The tug is sinking irrecoverably as I pass, but Soo-Jin pays it no mind. I can't see Cope or Shirazi on it as I slow down to check for them so I reopen the throttle and carry on, following her back to the docks where we'd first gotten onboard the thing and find them there waiting for us with Soo-Jin's jetski. She abandons her boat for the Jetski and zooms off without another word, going back to retrieve her motorcycle I guess.

When I climb up onto the dock, Shirazi and Cope both approach me quickly. Shirazi drapes his suit jacket around me and Cope hands me back my jeans and my service pistol. There's an awkward unease shared by the both of them, like both of them want to hug me, but neither does and I give them no invitation to, although right now I wouldn't actually complain too much if they did. Instead. the three of us climb wordlessly, frozen and exhausted, back into the van where Shirazi takes the driving seat and cranks the heating up to full power.

* * *

The noise of my cellphone wakes me with a start sometime later. The sun is rising in the sky, chasing away the darkness but it's still early, 04:34 by the time readout on the phone.

"Sounds like you did well out there," Inquisitor tells me. "There'll be a bonus payment hitting your bank account in addition to your regular renumeration. Have fun spending it."

"This is some bullsh*t you've got me involved in," I complain. "Someone has been screwing Jefferies over since before you dropped me into this sh*tstorm."

"I know," he admits. "We thought we'd dealt with it, but clearly the problem is bigger than we realized. That's why I've arranged what you asked for."

"What do you mean," I demand as my grip involuntarily tightens on the phone.

"A meeting with The Lost MC. They're wanting to bring some representatives of some other organisations to the meeting so, even though they're saying 'come alone' I would recommend you _don't_ go alone."

"When," I ask. My breath feels cold in my chest and my heart feels like it could burst.

"Midday. I'll text you the location when it's confirmed."

"What about work," I ask. "If Jefferies dumps me into another situation like today, I'm gonna struggle to make it."

"Don't worry about Jefferies," he says. "Your sale last night has given him a significant payday, and there'll be a bonus in it from the organisation because there were other parties involved that shouldn't have been. I understand from Mr Wood that he very swiftly got very high to celebrate, so you're not going to have to worry about him today. _This_ is your only priority. Let me know _anything_ you can find out."

"What was that," Shirazi calls back from the driver's seat, and Cope stirs beside me.

"Inquisitor has got me a meeting with The Lost MC," I tell them.

"That's a _very_ bad idea," Cope warns.

"Yeah," I agree as Shirazi grins at us in the rearview mirror. "That's what _he_ said."


	6. Chapter 6

They dropped me off at the house on Sustancia Road at 04:56 and told me they'd be picking me up at 11:30. Until then, all I had to do was sleep. Harvey was dozing on the new sofa that had been delivered while I'd been out, woke with a start when I came in and appraised my physical appearance with a startled "Jesus Christ!"

I'd waved him off and told him I'd fill him in when I woke up. I was dead on my feet and needed sleep, proper sleep. Mercifully, a new bed had been delivered and he'd even made it for me, sort of. It wouldn't pass a Drill Sergeant's inspection, but it was clean, inviting and comfortable and I sank into a dreamless black void before my head even hit the pillow.

* * *

"What are you doing here," I hear Shaun ask, shaking me from my sleep straight into fight-or-flight mode, expecting Henry Wood to yet again be antagonising him on the doorstep.

The voice that responds is female, and is coming from the living room area beyond the bedroom door. "I saw online you'd sold the place."

"Yeah," he says, and I can hear his voice catching. "Memories, you know?"

"I know," the female responds quietly. The two of them are silent for a while.

"You didn't answer my question," Shaun says, finally.

It takes her a while to think of her answer. "It just… like, I never thought that last strand would ever get severed. Memories, you know?"

"Bad memories," he says. No malice, no hostility. He says it gently. "You really should stop doing this."

"I know, Shaun. I know," she agrees, equally gently. I'm trying not to make too much noise as I pull on the jeans and T-shirt I'd discarded onto the floor before collapsing into the bed. "Who's bought the place," she asks.

"A soldier," he says. "Just got back, you'd like her…"

There's silence for a while. I hear her footsteps as she heads towards the door. Then she stops. "Did you do it, Shaun?"

He sighs heavily and even from my hiding spot behind the bedroom door, I can feel his anger flaring up. But he keeps it from his voice, instead sounding tired, resigned, when he asks her "what does it matter?"

"I always hoped," she starts and her voice catches. "I always hoped you _did_." Another uneasy silence follows, broken only by her gentle sobbing. "I hoped you took it and escaped to somewhere better," she explains after what feels like an eternity. "I hoped you escaped and you got over your drinking problem and you got away from your awful Lieutenant…"

"Oh," I hear him exclaim because he's lost for words. "I… I let you down. Right when you most needed me. I don't blame you for leaving. I'm glad you found happiness."

Her sobbing becomes more intense. "Shaun… I left because… Because it was my fault."

"No," he argues quickly, but she's clearly needing to let go of something she's been holding onto.

"You were hurting so much, I could see it, but you wouldn't talk to me. I blamed myself. And I wanted you to blame me too but you wouldn't… You just wouldn't _talk_ to me…"

"I couldn't," he says, and his own voice is choked now. "I just… hid from it. And hid the things I did at work from myself…"

They're silent now for a long time. The air is thick and I'm desperately holding my breath, terrified that they'll hear me and I'll give myself away. They need this. I consider trying to move but I'm rooted to the spot.

"I still," she starts, stops because she has to gather herself. "I still wonder what our baby would have been like."

"Me too," he says, and he's definitely crying. Again, they're quiet for a long time, so long I think I'm going to suffocate. And then he adds "I never blamed you. It wasn't your fault."

"I know," she says. "I always knew you didn't take the money."

"Y…your family," Shaun starts.

"They're good. They're wonderful. I hope you can… you should, someday."

"Yeah," he says. I'm not able to gauge whether that's rueful or noncommittal from here.

"I'm glad you've managed to quit drinking. Take care of yourself Shaun," she says.

"You too," he adds. I don't hear him following her as she makes her way on high heels to the front door and lets herself out. Only then do I realise I've still got my gun hanging limply in my right hand.

As quietly as I can, I cross the room to my window, slightly part the slats of the Venetian blinds. Outside I see the woman walking away, tall and slender in an expensive-looking soft pastel blue blouse, light pencil skirt. Long hair. Some sort of high-end SUV awaiting her at the kerb. She gets in, puts on a pair of dark shades and drives hesitantly away.

For a while after that I'm not sure what to do. Getting back into bed doesn't seem right somehow, so I have a shower and when I'm clean, put on the last of the clean outfits I bought from the Posonby's store, the charcoal trouser-suit with the white blouse.

Harvey's sitting alone at the new dining room table when I come out and seems startled as he sits himself up from where he'd been slumped with his head in his hands. His eyes are red.

"Want a coffee," I ask him softly.

"Yes please," he sighs. In the new kitchen that's mostly not fitted yet, still in its protective transport wrappings, I find a percolator, spend a few minutes working out how to use it. Neither of us says anything for a while, even when I sit down opposite him with two new mugs filled with new coffee. In fact, we're halfway through when finally he asks me "do you mind if I invite a friend of mine around to look at your phone?"

I set down my cup and look at him, considering. "What you mean?"

He clears his throat, looks away slightly, then back at me. "You keep coming home with new bruises. I know, I know," and he sits back with his hands held up. "I'm not interfering, I know you've got work. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. I just wondered if I could sort you out some kind of backup system."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Backup. You?"

He replies with a half-grin. "What, I'm not enough to inspire confidence?"

I can't help but laugh at that, and he manages a weak chuckle himself. "In fairness, you've had my back," I agree, but he waves the comment away.

"Not necessarily me, but I know a couple of people that… well… they're more into something similar to your line of work."

"Yeah," I agree, remembering. "I met one of your friends last night. Shane Morris."

"Oh, sh*t, Shane," he exclaims, sitting so far back in his chair I'm surprised it doesn't topple over. "How in Hell did your paths cross? Actually, y'know what, don't tell me. I probably don't wanna know."

"I'm more interested in how _you_ know him," I admit, but Harvey just looks down at the table top, avoiding my gaze.

"He's my AA sponsor," he says, knowing full well that I know there's more to the story than that. Can't really blame him for holding off on details though, not when I'm hardly forthcoming myself. Finally he looks back up at me. "You look very smart."

"Thanks," I say, uncomfortably. "I'm probably gonna need to buy some more clothes…"

"That's _definitely_ not my area of expertise," he says and the two of us find ourselves smiling like a couple of idiots. But then the smiles fade, and we're back to being awkward semi-strangers again.

"So you were saying," I start.

"Yeah. A friend of mine. They're kind of a tech genius," he replies.

"Sure," I agree. Given all that's happened since I came to this damned city, I need all the help I can get.

* * *

Shirazi and Cope both turn up at 11:30 on the dot. I choose to ride with Cope in his red Ocelot Lynx coupe, purely because it's significantly quieter than Shirazi's raucous Sultan; I've had _way_ too little sleep to be able to stand the noise _that_ thing makes. Cope's wearing blue jeans, an untucked navy blue shirt and a grey waistcoat today. Shirazi meanwhile is as sharply dressed as ever, electing for a gray suit the color of television static, with matching waistcoat and tie and a black shirt and shoes. Inquisitor texts me the location for the meet and I dial it into Cope's GPS.

The place is a sleazy rock club in West Vinewood called Tequi-la-la on the corner of Eclipse Boulevard and Milton Road. As it would turn out, there would be a few different gangs and outfits represented at the meet. Shirazi, Cope and I _definitely_ stuck out as 'The Suits', not that either of them would be in plain sight. They'd be spotted, in the same way they spotted the odd motorbikes, lowriders, donks and souped-up Asian sedans that are the tell-tale signs of the other gangs in attendance, but they'd be dropping me off a few blocks away from the bar and circling around. I just hope one of them will be able to get to me quickly enough in case there's any trouble.

There's nobody outside the bar, and no music. Not unusual at this time of day, the place doesn't usually open much before midnight, and shuts around 7am. The door is unlocked and I nervously push my way inside. As soon as I'm over the threshold, my radio earpiece crackles and goes silent. Whatever happens in here, clearly I'm on my own.

After the unnaturally cheerful brightness of the midday sun outside, the gloom of the bar seems almost like pitch blackness before my eyes slowly begin to adjust. I'd love a night-vision right about now.

I'm in a dingy corridor looking into a coat check window, surrounded by years of aging band posters plastered in countless layers over each other. Across the counter is a heavyset African-American guy, wearing a heavy chain over a black T-shirt, with thick-rimmed glasses and a fedora.

"Hey," he greets and raises an arm to offer me a fist-bump. I return it, no point antagonising anybody if I don't need to. I already have a bad feeling about this. "I'm gonna need you to check any weapons you got on you," he says. He's quiet, softly-spoken, likeable, but there's something underlying in his demeanour which suggests he's not a man to be messed with. I'd kind of expected this, so I take off my jacket and lay it over the window, turn around so he can see I'm unarmed. I turn out the pockets for him, then offer him the jacket in case he wants to search it himself. He takes it from me and gives me a curt nod. "Alright, cool, go on downstairs. Everyone's assembled waiting for you."

"Everyone," I ask, cautiously.

He gives me a smile. "Don't worry. You'll see."

I follow the narrow corridor to my right and then through a door into the main bar and stage. There's nobody in here, so I head on downstairs to the basement to where the participants in this meeting are assembled around a pool table. Well, all apart from one middle-aged Chinese guy sat on a grimy sofa in the corner, next to the jukebox.

At the far side of the table I recognise Paxton Cole. "Hey, Sergeant," he greets me as I step nervously to the table.

"I thought they'd have sent Robles," I reply, and get myself an amused grin from him.

"Trust me, neither of us wants that a$$hole anywhere _near_ this meeting."

I give him a curt nod, flash a quick, nervous smile. "So, you gonna introduce me to your friends?"

He's been leaning on the table on his fists but now he straightens up and, going clockwise around the table, points out the others in attendance; no personal names, just their gangs.

There's an African-American man dressed in the purple gang colors I'd seen the other night when Inquisitor took me to Grove Street represents the Ballas. I'm told they're main rivals are the Families, a fact I've been vaguely aware of for a while.

Two Latin-American guys are on opposite sides of the table, "for obvious reasons," one in a white vest, jeans and a thick chain with a diamond-encrusted crucifix. He's got a yellow bandana hanging from his jeans pocket representing the Vagos. The other wears cargo shorts with white sports socks and sneakers, an oversized baseball shirt and a turquoise bandana, the colors of the Varrios Los Aztecas. Next to him is a Korean in a tracksuit and a bucket hat representing the Kkangpae and next to him is another Hispanic for the El Salvadoran Marabunta Grande.

Nobody needs to introduce the Chinese man on the seat to know he's here for one of the Triad gangs. He gives me the curtest of nods in greeting which I make damn sure I return.

Finally the African-American man I'd met upstairs quietly joins us in the room. "You've already met our representative for the Families," Cole finishes. "For those who don't know, this is a former US Army Sergeant-"

"You're one of the _suits_ ," the Vagos gangbanger spits venomously, interrupting.

"The Sergeant was attached to my unit in Iraq," Cole snaps at him. "She's a good soldier. Just doesn't know what she's gotten herself into, is all."

"Damn right I don't, what _is_ this," I demand firmly. The Vagos and Ballas representatives glare at me, but the others share grins, apart from the Triad who keeps his expression carefully neutral.

"Survival," the Balla says, staring me hard in the eye. "'bout a year back, some rich white a$$hole gets hisself disappeared. Some bent Feds get killed. Cops still don't step on our turf, but now they puttin' the squeeze on our business. Then, after the _Diamond Rain_ gets shut down, and that job at the Union Depository, suddenly there's a hunnerd you a$$holes in your suits start musclin' in, too."

Cole picks up on my confused expression. "The _Diamond Rain_ was a yacht, the crew on it were renowned throughout the state for doing all of the high-end jobs. They stuck to their business, didn't bother us on ours and we stayed out of each other's way. About a year ago, the cops sank it," he explains. "Some _other_ crew then pulled off a robbery on the Union Depository and suddenly it's open season for rich a$$holes that wanna fill the void the _Rain_ crew left behind, and they're not shy about putting their nose in our business while they're at it. Then, and you might have learned this the other day, Paleto Bay has a new Sheriff, a pain in the a$$ called Pawel Verzynski. He's been running us out of the place, even going so far as to make an alliance with some other MC to do it. We got weed, coke and a weapons manufacturing place out there, _serious_ money that he's losing us. The MC responds by sending a f*****g truck bomb, because that's how desperate we're getting. I take it we have you to thank for stopping _that_ sh*tstorm?"

"What would be the point serving my country in Iraq and then not protecting its people now I'm back on home turf," I reply.

Cole nods slowly, as do a few others. "Well, some in the MC won't agree, but thank God you were there. We're all here," Cole continues, sweeping an arm around to indicate everybody present. "To protect our shared interests. Life in Los Santos isn't easy for people like us, but it's bearable as long as we can continue conducting our business. If we keep getting squeezed the way we are, all our leaders are gonna keep doing stupid sh*t that's gonna f*** things up permanently for _everyone_. Everybody in this room has chosen to put aside their differences and their gang politics _solely_ for that purpose."

"Yeah, these meets ain't exactly _sanctioned_ by our OG's," the Azteca explains.

"Used to be real simple," Cole continues. "Aside from the regular battles for turf, there are several, overlapping, business interests. Y'know, guns, coke, brown, meth. Gambling. Protection. Women... You get the idea. Point is-"

"Point is, all those are _ours_ ," the Vagos gangbanger interrupts again. "Don't matter which color's got it and which color's try'na take it, it's _ours_."

The El Salvadoran chimes in. "Bad enough we's already gotta stop Madrazo and the Armenians musclin' in-"

"An' those Bonelli's," the Azteca adds.

"Right, an' the Guineas," the Marabunta Grande gangster agrees, using the offensive slang for Italians. "Now we's gotta put up with you _suits_ as well, and you steppin' on _all_ our toes."

"But, like I said," Cole reiterates firmly, bringing things back under some semblance of control. "The Sergeant didn't know what she was getting into. She just thought she was gettin' a job. Right?"

"That's what I thought," I agree. "It's funny though. The guy I work for, Jefferies, he's convinced it's all you that're ripping _him_ off."

The room explodes with disbelief and anger. Only the Triad, the Azteca, Cole and the Families guy standing next to me remain silent.

"He thinks there's a mole in his organisation feeding somebody his intel," I continue, shouting as loud as I can to be heard over the racket. Cole pounds hard on the table twice and gradually the noise dies down. "There's something else," I add. "It's not just _you_ guys coming for his stuff. Yesterday we had to fight off an attempt by another detail from our _own_ organisation, another bunch of suits."

Cole now is nodding slowly. "Time was," he says. "We were able to arrange secure transit of our stuff via a dark web site we called The Open Road. Until a month or so back, when other MC's started ambushing our runs. And then so did everyone else. Suits. All the guys present today. If what the Sergeant's telling us is right, then somebody is indeed screwing over _all_ of us."

"That's a big 'if'," the El Salvadoran accuses.

"Agreed. I say we kill her," the Balla says, staring at me hard.

"Right. That's what we're doin' now, killin' each other. Might as well all just go back home and carry on where we were," the overweight guy I'd met downstairs finally chimes in.

"She ain't one of us, fool," the Balla argues angrily, emphasizing his point by waving his right arm around, fingers double-barrelled.

Cole turns around, puts a hand to his chest. "She is now," he says. "Right, Sergeant?"

"Get'cho hands off me cracker, yo bitch ain't bought us _nuthin_ ," the Balla snaps, swiping the hand away. The atmosphere in the room turns immediately hostile.

"Not nothing," I say. "I've got a friend. Kind of a tech genius. I'll get them to look into my boss' network and your… Open Road?" Cole nods. "I'll let you all know if they turn anything up."

"There. Everybody good," Cole asks the men around the table before specifically turning to the Balla. "We good?"

"Nah, b*tch, we ain't good," he complains at me. "All I'm hearing is false promises. She ain't given us nuthin' _solid_. She ain't even named her damn _gang_."

All eyes turn to me. "All I know is it's a secure cargo network," I say, playing for time. Dropping SecuroServ's name into this conversation is not likely to be a good idea. "Or at least it's supposed to be."

"Bullsh*t." Yep, that's the Balla again.

"At least tell us the name of who you' working for," invites the Azteca. "Who recruited you, ese?"

I can feel my heart pounding. I don't know how else I'm gonna get out of this one. "You know him," I say quietly to Cole, and immediately he gets it.

"Oh, _that_ motherf****r," he exclaims.

"Who," the Balla demands, earning a wry grin from Cole.

"You've probably bumped into him, without knowing it. Scruffy ginger guy. Leather jacket."

"Beard like a rat's a$$," the Vagos asks, catching on. "Got a red muscle car?"

"That's the a$$hole," Cole agrees. "He turned up when the Sergeant and I were in Iraq. Gave us a bullsh*t callsign and a bullsh*t squadron number. You ever check into that, Sergeant? 253rd he said. It was an Infantry Regiment, of the 63rd Infantry Division, been inactivated since 1959. He was _never_ one of us; he was running some IAA bullsh*t."

It doesn't surprise me Inquisitor might have been with the International Affairs Agency. It wouldn't surprise me if he still was, and using SecuroServ to either fund or recruit for some black op.

The Balla brings his fist up to his mouth, spits through it onto the pool table. "F*** this sh*t," he complains and storms out, making sure to bump hard into my arm as he passes. At least he's decided against killing me, for the time being.

One side of the table follows him, the side with the Vagos gangbanger and the El Salvadoran, and then the Korean and the Azteca from the other side. The African-American Families representative gives me another fist bump before he leaves. Finally the Triad rises, but he gives Cole and I a bow which each of us return before he makes his way upstairs.

"Somethin' else, Sergeant," Cole asks when I hang back.

I chew my lip, wondering how to put this. "You surprised me," I eventually admit.

He smiles at me. "What, you think I'm just gonna follow Robles and his idiots around forever? They followed _me_ into The Lost. I didn't want 'em keep hanging around me but I was just a Prospect so it wasn't my call."

"This little initiative here. It was your idea?"

"It was," he admits. "I'm not entirely selfless in it though, I've got my angle. Don't go mistaking me for your old boy scout."

Ouch. Should've known that would come up. When I did what I did with the comrade in Iraq that I did it with, Cole was the only one found out about it. He could've reported me. Could've spread the rumor I was a sl*t. But he didn't. I always wondered why, but maybe that's another angle that he's playing a long, _long_ game on. "Listen, about the other day," I start.

He shakes his head. "You should go before the others get to wonderin' where I am and come here lookin' for me. You know Robles and Decker still have their hard-ons for you and Riley… well, that sick mother****r wants to cut you like you did him, _and_ has his hard-on for you. Not to mention your little Asian friend for what she did to Myers."

"I'm sorry about that," I say. "Really. I know we had our differences, but-"

"Stop," he interrupts, and I realise his cool is starting to slip. Can't say I blame him. "Just go."

* * *

It's about ten seconds after stepping out into the blinding sunshine before Cope's car slides up to me. I get in quick and order him to floor it. He obliges and keeps the hammer firmly planted down all the way to the office. I don't see or hear Shirazi around us, so I guess he's gone a different way and, indeed, he joins us a few minutes later in the underground car park.

Cope's not said a word all the way here, and we're still silent as we bundle into the elevator. When we arrive at Jefferies' office, Eliza gets up from our desk and hurries towards us, eagerly embracing the two men and then, slightly more cautiously, puts her arms around me. When she releases me and steps back I notice her black eye, bruised cheek and swollen lip with a bright red, angry cut starting to scab over.

"Don't," she whispers, and I realise I'm staring at her hard, look away and try to soften my expression. It only takes a brief glance to see that Cope and Shirazi are both in the same mindset I am though. "And anyway, yours are worse," she adds. Deflecting. Making light. Fooling herself that it won't happen again.

"Where is he," Shirazi asks. Quietly, calmly, but there's no mistaking that underneath his carefully crafted exterior cool, he's as angry as I am.

"Asleep in his quarters," Eliza says. "Best you don't disturb him right now," she adds nervously, almost pleadingly.

"Alright, where's Wood," Cope asks her instead.

"Waiting to join us on conference call," she says, indicating towards the boardroom table where we'd assembled a couple of days previously. We let her lead us through and she stands leaning over the table in front of the chair at the head, where Jefferies would sit were he conscious and sober enough, lifts the receiver off the deskphone and activates the loudspeaker before dialling a number.

"Is everybody assembled," Wood asks when he picks up.

"There's me, Sergeant Coleman, Shirazi and Cope," Eliza confirms, before sitting herself down in Jefferies' chair.

"Thank you all for your efforts in ensuring the delivery was made last night," Wood's voice booms. "In recognition of your dedication, you'll be pleased to learn that _all_ of you have been advanced a paygrade, in addition to the bonus promised for delivery. That should be sufficient to enable you to suitably recompense your outside contractors."

"Thanks Wood, does the extend to Stamp too," Cope asks.

"It does. Be in no doubt that we fully intend to assist in her recovery. I don't suppose-"

"No," Shirazi interrupts. "No news just yet." Clearly, he's still carrying his anger.

"Have you spoken to Ant Macfarland," I ask. "We had interference from his crew right up to delivery."

"Macfarland is currently being investigated and we'll deal accordingly. I believe, Sergeant Coleman, that you've been making your own enquiries?"

All eyes turn to me, and I hate to admit it but it makes me uncomfortable. "So I met up with a member of the Lost MC. Our mutual friend arranged it," I add. "The biker is another guy that we served with in Iraq. He's managed to put together a group of guys from a bunch of different gangs."

"Well _that_ sounds dangerous," Wood appraises.

"They say it's for their survival," I continue. "Apparently some stuff went down last year-"

"Yeah, I'll say," Cope mutters.

"Some stuff went down and now everybody's after a piece of their action," I carry on. "There were at least a couple of guys there that know our friend," I add.

"Given the nature of his role within the organisation, that isn't surprising," Wood counters, thoughtfully.

"What is that role exactly," I ask. I'm expecting some questioning glances from my colleagues, but actually they seem just as interested in how Wood's going to answer.

"Mainly he's a liaison to the streets," Wood's measured tone comes back. "It's his business to keep up with our rivals' business, and to keep an eye out for potential talent, whether to place them directly into our organisation or as one of our plants elsewhere."

"Is it likely any of our rivals have their own plant within SecuroServ," Shirazi asks. No question. Both these guys are on board with me. For the first time, I'm starting to feel properly settled into my place in this team.

"It's always possible. Of course, we actively try to minimise such a risk," Wood comes back.

"You guys starting without me," a slurred, lazy voice calls out from behind us. Eliza nearly jumps out of her skin and hurriedly vacates the seat for the one to her left as Jefferies staggers his way to the table, naked except for a pair of running shorts and one sock, a bong in one hand and a lighter in the other. After dropping himself into his chair, his first order of business is to take a hit from it and double over coughing.

"Mr Jefferies," Wood greets. "Are you sure you don't want to carry on your celeb-"

"Time y'all get back to work," Jefferies drawls, pressing the button on the phone to terminate the call. "'s a guy with a Cheval Taipan. Second one in the country, only one in the state. Sticker price on it's a cool two mil."

"We're getting into vehicle trafficking now, boss," Cope asks quizzically.

Jefferies slams a fist down on the table. "You do," he yells, but then has to stop for a hacking cough. "You do what I god damn tell you," he grimaces, clutching his chest when he can get his breath again. "I've sent Eliza the details. Get it and make it mine."

I'm reluctant to leave Eliza alone with Jefferies, especially in the state he's in. Cope and Shirazi sense it. Cope comes to my side. "Come on Sergeant," he quietly implores. "She'll be fine, and otherwise we'll deal with it."

I look at Jefferies. He's got his head in his hands looking down at his table top. Eliza is already on her way back to her desk at reception, so I get up and follow the guys out.

"Alright, you're robbing an arms dealer," Eliza tells us over our headsets as we're riding down in the elevator. "He's got his own crew of private security onsite, and some _serious_ backup if they hit the panic button, so you're gonna need to do this _quietly_. One of his guards has the key. The vehicle won't start without it."

"What's the address," asks Cope.

We hear her working her computer. "That's odd," she says.

"What," Shirazi demands.

"Nothing. Just… well, it's Devin Weston's old address."

"Who's that," I ask.

"He was a local billionaire but he went missing last year. I didn't realise they'd already sold his place."

"Doesn't matter," Shirazi says. "Job's the same, regardless of where it is."

If only we could've known how wrong he was.

* * *

The place is a sprawling mansion in the Tongva Hills, a place that redefines "luxury." It grates on my survivalist upbringing as obscene, and triggers my suspicions in how remote it is, standing all on its own on stilts on the side of a mountain. Imagine a Vinewood spy movie villain? His lair would seem like a slum apartment compared to this place.

The three of us are riding together in the disposable Sultan we'd got from the storage unit on my first day. We have to drive past the place until we can find an area off the side of the road to safely park at, and then we approach the house as quietly as we can on foot.

"Why is there not a guard out front," I whisper.

"I don't know, but we're gonna take advantage of it," replies Cope. "Alright, Coleman, you take the front. I'll flank from the left, Shirazi the right."

"You sure man? That's some steep drop your side," Shirazi counters.

"I don't mind climbing. You two just watch your a$$," he orders. No point wasting any more time. When the road is quiet, the three of us split up, dashing as low and as quiet as we can to our respective entry points.

I make my way over the gate and draw my silenced pistol, sweep around looking out for any guards or surveillance systems, but I can't see anything. To my left is a red wall on top of which a front lawn is elevated, some trees and shrubs around its border. I can't see anybody on top of it and I use it as cover while I edge my way in a crouch towards the main structure of the house across the long and immaculate driveway. On my right, a tall hedgerow provides privacy from the road and protection from the sheer drop it gives way to as the house extends over the mountainside.

I reach the end of the wall and peer around to the left. Still no signs of movement, nor any obvious cameras or motion sensors. Of course, that means nothing in this day and age, they could be so small and so well disguised I'd only find them if I was specifically sweeping the area with detecting equipment. Cope will be approaching from that direction. I'm considering heading that way, across the front of the house to meet him, but directly ahead of me is the mansion's garage under a car port. If I climb up onto the hedge I can get onto the roof and then scope the entirety of the grounds from an elevated position, so that's what I do. From the car port, I'm able to climb onto the roof of the house, where I'm immediately faced with another red-walled elevated area. If there's a sniper up here, that's where I'd expect him to be so I'm very careful hauling myself up over it. Nothing there but a small satellite receiver. I sweep the rest of the rooftop and see nothing else, so I make my way to the opposite side of the elevated square. From up here, the red wall is only at waist height so I simply vault over it. The sniper is dressed in red, sat with his back to it so I miss the fact that he's there until his weapon fires a tiny dart into the back of my neck. I whirl around, realising too late my rookie mistake, but the gun already feels too heavy for me to hold, my brain only really able to register the fact that he's there before I lose consciousness.

When I come round, the first thing I realise is that it's cold and that I'm drowning in water that's about as cold as ice. I struggle to swim and realise that my arms are both tightly bound together behind my back. I can't even get a grip on anything with my hands. I realise that I'm bent over and that somebody is holding my head in the water. For an uncomfortably long time I struggle helplessly and I'm sure I'm going to die here. And then finally I'm pulled out to take desperate, painful gasps of air, slowly realise that I'm bound to a heavy wooden chair. As my head clears, I become aware of more things. One, they've got Shirazi and Cope too and they're both screaming but I can't make out their words. All of us have been stripped to our underwear. Two, it's a large bucket of water that they'd been holding my head in and I'm now completely soaked. Three, there is definitely no supercar in this garage. And four, we're at the mercy of, I count, four men, all clad in unmarked black combat gear and balaclavas. This is more than some private security, these guys are heavy duty professionals.

"Nobody going to say anything? No," their leader taunts my colleagues. "Oh, of course! She's been _trained_ for this! Oh well, let's try something else." He turns around to one of his men, stationed waiting next to a large red metal tool cabinet. He hands the leader a pair of pliers. "Oh, nice," the leader appraises and then approaches Shirazi. "Time for your checkup, handsome."

Two more men flank Shirazi, tilt the chair he's tied to back and squeeze his cheeks hard, pinch his nose, forcing his mouth open as he tries to protest. "God damn it, _stop_ ," Cope cries, but his protests fall on deaf ears. We watch horrified as the leader forces the pliers into Shirazi's mouth before he starts to struggle and scream. "What are you _doing_ ," I plead, but nobody pays attention. Shirazi's screaming intensifies and then finally the leader wrenches the pliers out, one of Shirazi's teeth gripped and bleeding clamped inside them. His chair is set upright and I see him spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor, but it's flowing heavily.

The leader kneels down in front of me, shows me Shirazi's tooth in the pliers. "What do you say, Princess," he sneers. "One of you is leaking secrets. Are you gonna confess?"

" _Somebody's_ leaking, but not us," I tell him.

He sighs, as if with disappointment, stands upright and waits there for a second.

"It's not us," I insist. "We're trying to work out what's happening too!"

"Bring me the faggot," the leader orders and steps past me as the other three flank Cope's chair and lift it, carrying him past me as he fights and squirms helplessly. I'm struggling too – why can't I get a hold of anything?

"Stop! Please stop," Shirazi struggles to cry through all the blood flooding his mouth, but they're ignoring us. I hear noises from behind me but I can't see what they're doing.

"Don't do this," Cope urges. "Please, it's not any of us-"

"I've always wanted to crucify someone," I hear the leader say.

"No," Shirazi screams, but it's too late. There's a sickening noise that I recognise as a nail gun and then Cope cries out in pain.

"Stop it, please stop it," I yell, thrashing about helplessly, bound firm to the chair. The men tormenting us ignore us completely and there's a second thud, then a third.

Cope's screaming and pleading has given way to a steady stream of threats but now the men are surrounding me. My gaze briefly locks onto Shirazi's and he's pale with terror. I'm expecting them to turn me around so I can see Cope where they've nailed him to the garage wall but they don't. My feet are untied from the legs of the chair. I try to pull them from the men's grasp so I can kick out but they hold my legs firm and bind them together, then force my feet firmly into the bucket of ice cold water that they'd been drowning me in.

"Stop," growls Shirazi. "Whatever you're going to do to her, do it to me!"

"Oh, do we have a confession coming on," the leader asks. "Tell me who you've been giving secrets to?"

Shirazi starts thrashing, equally helpless in his bindings. "Nobody! We've not leaked nothing to nobody! Just do whatever you're gonna do to me!"

"What about you, tough guy," the leader demands of Cope. "Are you our leak?"

"You'll be leaking blood from your-" Cope starts angrily.

"Oh well," the leader cuts him off. One of his men is handing him two jump leads. This is not legal, and I know exactly where it's going. So do Shirazi and Cope who are now desperately trying to appeal the men to not do this to me.

F*** 'em. I know _exactly_ why they're going to this length with me. If they think they're going to get a fragile and scared little girl, they've come to the wrong place. I hold the leader's gaze, stare him hard in the eye, even as he flicks the switch, but then I'm lost to the voltage.

I don't know how long he buzzes me for, but the pain stops immediately when he turns it off and I'm able to stop thrashing in my chair. The b*st*rd doesn't give me a second before he hits me again, stronger this time, and for a longer period. Both my colleagues are screaming frantically when he stops, and I want to plead no more, but again he turns it straight back on and eventually I black out.

It's a while before I recall where I am and realise that the leader is on the phone. When he finishes his conversation, he says "well, looks like these three know nothing after all. We've found their little Indian friend. Let's go pick her up." He doesn't say anything else, but indicates with an arm signal to one of his men who hangs back in the corner of the garage while the leader and the other two file out.

When they're gone, he unholsters his sidearm and walks slowly over to Shirazi. "I've got a little secret to confess," he says mockingly, running his gun from Shirazi's head down to his chest before turning and making his way over to me. Puts the gun between my legs and leans in close, puts his nose on my neck. "Yeah, I'm gonna do you last," he whispers, then stands up. "You hearing me okay from up there, Gay Jesus," he asks Cope. Laughs at his own joke. That's when I strike.

My legs are still in the bucket. Still tied together. But not bound down. When I raise my legs, I'm able to bring the bucket up with 'em. Spill some of the cold water over myself, but it's worth it because I'm able to whip it around into his spine, hard enough to make him cry out and drop to the ground. While he's trying to figure out what just happened, I'm pushing myself up with my feet so I can swing the chair around and slam two of the legs down on top of him. Finally I have _him_ screaming. See how he likes it. Ahead of me I see Shirazi rocking his chair trying to get it to tilt over. The guy is squirming underneath me, angrily trying to throw me off. I'm pressing down on him as hard as I can but I can't hold him forever and finally I'm sent falling hard onto my left hand side. The chair breaks on impact, but that's not going to save me now. My hands are still stuck behind my back and I'm dragged up by my hair and slapped hard across both sides of my face before he throws me away so he can stoop over to retrieve his weapon. I struggle with my ankles bound together to stay upright but I manage to stumble my way over to Shirazi, carrying him over with my momentum. Both of us cry out in pain as we hit the floor, but then I'm pulled up again by my hair and thrown to the floor out of the way so the guy can aim his gun at Shirazi. "Hear this," he snarls angrily. "You all should know this before you die. It was your boss Jefferson that hired us to find out which one of you is the rat." He cocks the hammer on his gun, an unnecessary but intimidating gesture. "But, you see, it's _us_ your mole was ratting to! You were _all, always_ gonna die."

I've not come this far to let him stop us now so I use my feet to spin myself around and sink my teeth as hard as I can into the guy's leg, try and hold the bite until he smacks me on top of my head with the butt of his gun, but by now Shirazi has managed to work himself free from the chair and launches himself into a waist-level tackle that puts all three of us on the floor. The gun clatters against the ground at my feet and I kick it as far away as I can manage, wiggle away as Shirazi and the guy tussle on the ground.

Shirazi's arms are still bound behind his back, held together in a black leather sleeve with four belts fastened tightly around them at roughly even intervals between his wrists and his elbows. They must have done the same to me; _that's_ why I can't use my hands!

The guy is therefore easily able to overpower Shirazi. I struggle to get myself back to my feet and rush him as I hear Cope screaming from where he's fixed to the wall.

Just like Shirazi, I tackle the guy, head down, running at him, taking him down with momentum. I roll away when we're down so that Shirazi can once again slam himself down on the man. We have no plan here, we're simply buying as much time as we can. Cope's screaming intensifies, but I'm too preoccupied watching Shirazi once more get beaten off, trying to get back onto my feet to pin the guy down once more before he can get back to his gun and get this sh*t finished.

This time he's ready for my rush, steps out of the way and grabs me around my waist, spins me around to use my own momentum against me and throws me into a wall. Shirazi's up and headbutts him, forces him back to the ground with his bodyweight. That's when I glance at Cope and realise why he's screaming.

His left hand has a large bloody red hole in the middle of it; he's pulled it from the nail which is still stuck into the wall where it had been pinning him, tearing the hole in his own flesh wider and he's using the fingers of his ruined left hand to pry the nail out of his right hand. I just need to buy him time.

The guy has once more beaten Shirazi off and is hurrying for his gun, bending down to pick it up. I throw myself onto him one last time, pin him down for as long as I'm able to.

His elbow connects with my temple and my vision dims as he shoves my limp body off him, but it's enough. I hear his scream before I've registered the sound of the nailgun that Cope's now got clutched in his bloody hands, but once I recognise the thud, I hear it again and again as Cope blasts nail after nail into the guy's body until it's empty. The guy had stopped breathing long before Cope gets done.

Only when it's empty does he drop it and then, with a howl of agony, clasps his ruined hands, one over the other, to his chest. The adrenaline burst has gone, I realise, and the reality of his injuries is setting in. The right hand should be okay, given time. I'm not so sure about the left. But, and I feel awful for this, I can't allow him time to dwell on that now.

"Cope, we have to help Stamp. Untie this thing," I demand, turning myself around so my back's to him and he can see the sleeve binding my arms together. It's a struggle for him, and it's breaking my heart, but he manages after about a minute to get me out of it. Freedom brings a fresh wave of pain; the bindings have been holding my arms in an unnatural position with a great degree of pressure. Numbness quickly gives way to intense, burning agony which I have to force myself through as I try and force feeling back into them so I can help Shirazi. He grunts in pain as he exercises his own arms back to life and then he grabs the guy's gun and leads us through the doorway in the side of the garage that the others had left through. We hurry across the driveway but our car has disappeared, and there are no others at the property. There's a pickup coming down the mountain road though so I run out in front of it waving my arms and yelling for help. The guy driving it, an old rural guy in a check shirt and a Stetson with a thick moustache looks at me with some alarm as he brings the truck to a halt. I open his passenger door and say "thank you. My friends and I need to get to the Central Los Santos Medical Centre right away. It's am emergency."

Before he can react, Shirazi pulls open the driver's door. "Mind if I drive," he asks and hauls himself up without waiting for an invitation. The guy sees the gun and scrambles out of his passenger door past me. I put a hand on his shoulder and say "why don't you ride in the back with me?"

His look of alarm gives way to confusion as he wacthes me help Cope get into the shotgun seat. He's still stood there, in shock I guess, when I slam the passenger door shut. "Come on," I say, in my most soothing, feminine tone. With some uncertainty, he follows me to the back of the truck and lets me help him climb up before I pull myself into the bed and pound my knuckles on the cab's ceiling a couple of times so Shirazi knows he's good to go.

I notice the old-timer looking at me as I sink down into the bed. "I'm sorry about this," I say. "It really is very kind of you to help us out."

"You... er, you in some kind of _trouble_ , Miss," he asks me, nodding his head briefly in the direction of the cab.

"No. They're my friends. But some bad people are on their way to hurt another good friend of ours," I explain, eying the belt around his waist. "What you carryin' there," I ask, my interest piqued.

"Oh, this," he asks me and draws a double-action revolver from the waist holster I'd suspected he had. "Been carryin' this since I was sixteen. Clean it every Sunday after Church."

"It's very nice," I compliment, admiring it.

He lets me look it over it for about a minute, weighing me up, before adding "There's a shotgun in the toolbox if it'll help you."

* * *

Storming into the hospital was never going to be subtle; the three of us in our underwear, Shirazi clutching the semi-automatic and me a twelve-bore shotgun while Cope bought up the rear, still clutching his bloody hands to his chest. But from the level of pandemonium and the number of people yelling either at each other or into phones or radios, it's clear we're already late to the party.

Shirazi leads the way, and the trail of chaos makes it obvious where we're going, taking us to a recovery ward a short way beyond the ER. When we get into it, Shane Morris is being loaded onto a gurney by a couple of surgeons with two exit wounds, one in his shoulder, the other closer to his hip.

"Jesus," one of the doctors complains when he sees our weapons and the two of them back away.

"Who did this," Shirazi asks him.

"F*****g _Stamp_ ," Morris grimaces.

"What," a dazed Cope exclaims.

"I know, right," Morris goes on. "F*****g Merryweather comes in here looking for her, I lay down some fire cos I'm here to protect her, then she shoots me in the f*****g back!"

"Wait, you said Merryweather," I demand.

"Yep. I know those mother*****rs _anywhere_ ," he confirms.

"Where'd Stamp go," Shirazi asks, and indicates for the two doctors to carry on helping him. Nervously they approach.

"Took off with 'em," Morris replies. "Didn't put up a fight."

"Hang in there," Shirazi says as the doctors start wheeling Morris away for surgery. We don't wait around for them to call security or cops on us and make our way back to the lobby, but we stop and crowd around the payphone while Shirazi makes a reverse-charge call to Henry Wood.

"Jefferies just had us interrogated," he complains. "F*****g _Merryweather_ -"

"I know, and it's worse than you think," I can hear Wood booming back, even with the receiver pressed to Shirazi's ear. "Have you secured Miss Stamp?"

"No, they got here before us. She went with them," Shirazi says. The look on his face mirrors the churning in my stomach, and I don't even have to look at Cope to know he's feeling it too.

"Meet me at the office," Wood instructs. "I'm on my way there now."

"We'll be as quick as we can but we need clothes and wheels, and Cope's gonna need a tetanus shot."

Wood sighs. "Where are you?"

"LS Central Medical," Shirazi confirms.

"There's a scrapyard about two blocks North-East. Be there in five minutes," Wood instructs and then the line goes dead.

We have to haul a$$ to the place, we're all panting hard when we get there. No sooner do we arrive than a couple of sedans pull up, SecuroServ uniformed guys getting out of both and training their weapons on us. "Names," one of them demands.

"Shirazi. Cope. Coleman," I confirm. They put their guns down and both get into the front, more sleek of the sedans and drive away. There's clothes and guns for each of us in the trunk of the other car, along with a first aid kit. We get dressed into simple black jeans, T-shirts and sneakers and then I get into the back with Cope while Shirazi again takes the wheel.

The car doesn't look like much, an old 70's four-door DeClasse Tulip, but it performs. Shirazi threads us through the traffic like its not even there while I use the first aid kit they've left us to try and patch up Cope's hands, inject him with a tetanus booster. He's not doing so good and I can't blame him, but he's trying his hardest to push through it. I think rage is helping.

People exhibit their anger in different ways. My Dad lashed out. Shirazi clearly simmers under the surface. Cope's eyes have gone black and it radiates from him, or rather it seems to suck all the warmth out of the environment around him in stark contrast to his normal warm demeanour, while he sits taut and unmoving. I think this scares me more than anybody shouting and screaming, or throwing their weight around.

We make it to the office in about eight minutes from the limited amount of clock-watching I've been able to do. Shirazi puts us into the underground parking lot so we didn't notice the SUV's that were parked outside the building's front entrance. We're not expecting the firefight on Jefferies' floor until we step out of the elevator into it and automatic rifle fire pins us back.

Immediately we notice that Henry Wood is dead. Near his corpse, cowering under her desk is a bloodied Eliza, hands clamped over her head sobbing quietly. We return fire with the handguns we've been given, but Shirazi and I are only able to pop a few rounds off each, blind-firing around the elevator doors before heavy automatic fire forces us to shrink back into cover.

When it stops, Cope strides out and storms towards Eliza's desk. His gun spits once, twice, three times and then there's another burst of rifle fire, but now it's not coming at us so Shirazi and I emerge from the elevator and advance on Cope's position where he's taken cover not far from Eliza's desk, halfway towards the board table. It seems there are two guys firing and now we're out in the open we can see they're wearing the same black combat gear and balaclavas as the Merryweather guys that had tortured us. Shirazi takes out one. I put down the other.

"F*** off! You were supposed to be _helping me_ ," we hear Jefferies scream over the wild firing of his own weapon before a single shot silences him. Together, all three of us advance to where Jefferies' desk was. Sure enough, he's slumped dead against the wall behind where his upturned desk had been. Two more shooters are there. Cope takes both of them out before Shirazi and I can even wrap our brains around reacting, and then we turn our attention towards sweeping the office for more of the b*st*rds, but it's clear.

Shirazi helps Eliza to her feet but she's wailing catatonically.

"Hey," I snap at her. "Get a grip."

"B-but my contract! SecuroServ are gonna _terminate-"_

Shirazi puts his hand on her shoulder. "No they're _not_ ," he insists.

"B-but Jefferies! A-and Stamp! They're gonna _kill_ me," she cries, shaking so hard I think she's gonna collapse.

"You're with us," Shirazi says gently, putting his hand on the side of her face. "We're all getting out of here."

"Together," I agree and then glance across at Cope. He's tucking his gun in his jeans and picking up an automatic from one of the dead Merryweather guys, gives me a nod when he's checked the cartridge. We take the stairs, shielding Eliza between us, until we get down to the parking lot.

"Look after her, I'll bring my car around," Shirazi says. Cope and I hold her between us, half keeping her upright, half embracing her. Shirazi sprints over to his Sultan, unlocks it with the keyfob remotely and slides into the driver's seat.

A second later, the car explodes in a violent fireball with a force that throws Cope, Eliza and I back into the doors of the elevator.

More than thirty IED attacks he'd managed to avert in Iraq. A car-bomb wired to his ignition killed him while we watched in helpless horror, and the blast took out all the vehicles in the immediate vicinity, including the Tulip Wood had had delivered to us at the scrap yard, and Cope's Lynx.

Eliza doubled over and screamed herself hoarse as tears flooded from her eyes. Cope dropped onto his a$$ and wailed, buried his head in his hands. I had to fight the urge to throw up.

When I have enough strength back I take off, leading Cope and Eliza past the flaming carnage to the next level down. The Elegy's still where I left it, unharmed. I search it thoroughly for signs of tampering while Cope holds tightly onto the hysterical Eliza, find none. It starts when I turn the key in the ignition. That's the car that we rode out in, heading to my Dad's place, but Cope told me to stop off first at Tinsel Towers to check out Apartment 42; Aneesha Stamp's place.

Cope kicked the door open and we both swung inside, guns drawn, while Eliza waited for us outside. The place was empty, Stamp and her stuff already gone, only an unaddressed letter left behind on one of the kitchen units:

 _I'm sorry I had to leave you._

 _If you're reading this, the circumstances probably weren't pleasant._

 _Understand, I never wanted to hurt you._

 _This was all about Guinea-Bissau._

 _\- A.S_

* * *

Inquisitor is already at my Dad's house waiting for us when we arrive. His expression is as grave as Cope and I are feeling. "Thank God you two made it. Where are the others?"

"Shirazi's dead," I say. There's no malice or anger or resentment in my voice. In all honesty, I'm far too tired for any of that now.

Inquisitor's eyes flick to Cope as he asks "and Stamp?"

Cope says nothing. Hands him the letter. He reads it, looks up then quickly away to the left with a heavy sigh. "Son of a bitch."

"What happened in Guinea-Bissau," I ask, firmly.

"A coup-de-tat. 2003," Inquisitor replies. "Supposedly bloodless, but a few people around it wound up dead. Stamp's mentor was one of them," he adds and has to clear his throat. After a few seconds to collect himself, he goes on. "He was financing one of the groups that was applying the political pressure for the coup. It's funny that all that money went missing. Funny that, from that same coup, Don Percival founded Merryweather Private Security."

"Jesus," Cope curses and turns around to be sick. I'm barely holding it in myself.

Inquisitor spots Eliza, where she's hiding in the back of my car. "Don't be afraid my dear," he says to her. "We won't be terminating your contract. In fact, we'll be placing you in an alternative position very shortly."

"Eliza stays with us," I say. Cope straightens and comes to stand by my side to reiterate the point.

Inquisitor looks at us with an almost apologetic expression. "Eliza has two degrees in finance and a very specific skillset which is extremely valuable to our organisation. We need to put her with another VIP, ASAP."

"Why can't she work with us? We'll take over from Jefferies," I say.

"Sergeant Coleman," he protests, pulling a face. "As thrifty as your father and you are with your money, I sincerely doubt between you that you've managed to amass a minimum one million dollars. And Cope, with your apartment and your car, I _know_ you haven't."

"Why a million," I ask.

Cope answers that one. "It's the minimum capital you need to be one of SecuroServ's 'VIP's'."

"Call it an insurance policy," Inquisitor adds.

"I'll get you your million," I say firmly. His condescending smile makes me want to punch him, like I've wanted to punch so many of my male counterparts that have underestimated and belittled me. Holding back from doing so is probably the most important ability my Dad gave me.

"Follow me," I say and lead him into the barn, where the old Imponte had sat dry-stored. Brush away the dirt from the ground until the old hatch is revealed. It's been shut a long time so it takes me some effort to pull it open, but when I do the lights come on immediately, illuminating the ladder. I go down first. Inquisitor follows, and then Cope.

It's only one 40 x 8 foot shipping container buried down here, but it's all my Dad and I needed to survive for fifty years. Canned food, a pipeline to an underground water reservoir with filtration equipment, lights, enough batteries to fire the Imponte into the middle of the sun...

But that's not the part I bought them down to show them. I pull the tarp off the wall in the bottom half of the container so they can see our arsenal; Hawk and Little semi-automatic pistols, a hundred of them, each with two extended cartridges of sixteen rounds apiece. Ten Hawk & Little fifty-calibre pistols and a hundred cartridges each containing nine rounds. Five Hawk & Little pump-action shotguns, hundreds of boxes of shells for them. Twenty Hawk and Little submachineguns with two thousand rounds between them, and two M249's with five hundred rounds apiece. Twenty Shrewsbury Assault rifles with four sixty-round cartridges apiece. And two Shrewsbury sniper rifles with five hundred rounds between them.

"Ho-ly sh*t," Cope mutters approvingly.

"Jesus Christ, what was your Dad planning on _doing_ with all these guns," Inquisitor asks me.

"Surviving," I reply.

"Alright, Coleman," Inquisitor sighs. Tilts his head, thinking. "I can probably get you two weeks. You can make a million in that time frame, you can take over Jefferies' business. Otherwise I'm putting Eliza back to work. Probably putting you two on Ant Macfarland's crew. I understand he's needing a new detail."

"Hang on, Macfarland tried to screw Jefferies over," Cope argues.

"Nope. That would be our friend Stamp selling intel," Inquisitor counters.

It doesn't add up though. Not completely. There's more to this. But for now, Cope and I take it at face value.

Before he drives away, Inquisitor gives us all new phones. Insists that I'm having to pay for this one. I turn mine on and I'm going to call Harvey, but immediately it starts ringing.

"I've got a proposition for you," a woman tells me. It takes me a few seconds to realise it's the woman who'd agreed with my story at the diner when I'd killed Eddie Ross. "A high end score, taken elegantly, using the latest tech."

She introduces herself as Paige Harris, tells me that she's a friend of Harvey's.

* * *

Later on that night, Soo-Jin Munn arrives on her motorbike, something I'll later learn is a Pegassi FCR1000 custom café racer, and Dakota Rune arrives in a Dinka hatchback. The sight of him makes Soo-Jin and Cope raise an eyebrow. He considers himself gender-fluid, carefully androgenous with his swept-side bright red undercut and wearing a leather biker jacket over a grey dress with black patterned tights and high-heeled ankle boots.

We're a mish-mash of a crew, for sure.

I fill them in on the details of Paige's plan while we dig a grave for my Dad. Douse him in petrol when he's in the hole and set the fire, but it's Shirazi that we drink the first toast to. Henry Wood the second and after that we take turns to name and drink to other people we've each loved and lost. Eliza stays quiet, her eyes transfixed on the flames.

Once everybody's clear on Paige's plan, I make sure they're all onboard with mine. It's real simple, in theory, but in practice it's going to be a whole lot harder. It sounds so good when we're talking about it.

We're going to clean up the crime in Los Santos. The crime on the streets AND in the tower offices. From the gangbangers to the corrupt bankers and, eventually, the crooked CEO's that are our employer's VIP's.

We're gonna take them all down.


	7. Chapter 7

Harvey's awake, putting a bookcase together when I get back to Sustancia Road at a little after 3am. Cop hours I guess. Cope follows me inside carrying a near-comatose Eliza. I guide him towards my bedroom so he can set her down on my bed while I join Harvey in the living room. He looks with some bewilderment between me and Dakota who's bringing up the rear while reapplying his red lipstick.

"If I'd known you were having a party," Harvey starts, then becomes aware that Dakota's staring hard at him. "You okay there man?"

"You got a problem with a dude in ladies' clothes," Dakota taunts.

"Actually, I was just wondering if you knew my friend Jess. Works at the comic shop on Vinewood," Harvey replies.

"What, you think just because," Dakota starts, then stops, like he's suddenly realised what Harvey actually said. "Uh, no. No, I don't. You got a friend that genderbends? I thought you'd be all like righteous and s***."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Shaun's cool," I tell Dakota, then turn to Harvey. "It's okay. Relax." He stands up from where he's been crouched working and sinks onto the sofa, but he doesn't _look_ actually relaxed, even when I sit down next to him. I handle introductions as Cope quietly joins us from the bedroom. Harvey sees the bandages and refrains from offering any handshakes. "So I spoke to your friend," I say once the formalities are out of the way.

"Paige," he asks.

"Yep. Sounds like just what we need."

"Just what you need," Harvey mumbles and then finally stands up, paces the living room a little. "Sounds like what you _need_ is to lay low for a while." He stops, holds his hands up. "I'm not interfering. Just trying to give you some advice from my viewpoint as a cop."

"Ex-cop," Cope sharply interrupts.

"The explosion was on the news," Harvey continues. "Uh, it looks like they got Wood," he adds quietly and looks awkwardly downwards at the new carpet.

"Shirazi too," Cope adds. Not quite snapping but not far off. His eyes are still dark, body still rigid.

"I'm sorry," Harvey acknowledges, more of a professional condolence from his days as a cop than him picking up on Cope's silent but terrifying rage. He did at least sound genuine but it dawns on me that he has no way of knowing who Shirazi actually was. "How's Shane," he goes on, unknowingly but effectively diffusing any animosity Cope might be harboring towards him.

"Looks like he's going to be okay," I say, trying to lift the mood a little.

"Yeah, I forgot you two knew each other," Cope adds, trying his hardest to push through the anger and give Harvey the benefit of the doubt. Before I even realise what I'm doing, I'm laying my hand gently on Cope's arm. He doesn't flinch or shake me off.

"Shane's a good man. Good pilot too," Harvey says. "Look, Paige, she's a demon with the computers. Probably better than Lester who she works for." He tilts his head to one side and looks at me quizzically. "Sounds like you've already cooked something up with her, but the thing yesterday, there's gonna be some interest from law enforcement."

"We've got two weeks to make a million dollars," Cope says. "Allows us to be our own boss, and keep Eliza safe," he adds, nodding towards the bedroom door. "After that, our window closes and we lose sight of her."

"Alright," Harvey says, nodding slowly. "So what do you need _me_ to do? I mean, I'd lend you a million from the armored truck I ripped off, only I never actually did that."

"No man, you're just the babysitter," Dakota pipes up, stood in the corner trying to find something to fidget with. The emptiness of the place must be frustrating to him, but at least I now have a fitted kitchen and living room. There's even a boxed TV under the windowsill.

"She'll be safe here," Harvey assures us.

"Thank you Shaun," I say, and stand. Cope gives Harvey a nod before he follows me and Dakota playfully bumps into him shoulder to shoulder as he follows us out.

"Is he ever moving out," Cope asks me when we're back in the Elegy. Dakota's behind us in his Dinka hatchback, but he peels off at the intersection to make his own preparations for the day ahead.

"When I've actually _paid_ him for the house, yeah," I say.

"And you trust him?"

"Yes. So does Morris," I remind him.

"Alright." He swallows hard then, turns away to stare out of the window. When he looks back, I notice some of the color has returned to his eyes, and they're shiny even in the dark 4am light. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, his voice catching.

"It's okay," I say softly. " _Where_ am I taking you?"

"Prosperity Street in Morningwood. I've got a backup apartment there," he says. "The Elegy wouldn't look out of place but, still, there's a garage you can hide it in."

He directs me across the city to a run-down apartment complex on the border of Morningwood and Del Perro, exactly the kind of place you wouldn't look for anybody like Cope. Definitely not Shirazi. His death still weighs heavy in my chest. I'm gonna be nervous any time anybody starts a car for a while.

When we arrive at the place, Cope gets out of the car and manually unlocks a small garage door with a key from a set he keeps in a jacket pocket, one that definitely looks too heavy to carry in his pants, and I pull in next to an original model, late 70's Vapid Retinue. It's visibly used, the orange paintwork and black leather interior both a little tired and worn, but it's a rare car nowadays, carries some hipster desirability that would draw some attention in this neighbourhood. When I get out, Cope locks the garage closed again and leads me up an external staircase, taking me to apartment number 23.

This dark and dingy little place is _definitely_ not anywhere you'd expect to find a man like Rayhan Cope. He can see I'm thinking it from the half-smirk I'm unable to suppress. "Exactly why I got the place," he affirms, unlocking a small cupboard right next to the door to reveal where he's hidden the control pad for the alarm system. "I've got another one too out in Grapeseed, and one in San Fiero if the s*** _really_ hits the fan," he tells me, closing the cupboard and then locking us into the apartment.

"I really couldn't picture you in San Fiero," I admit as he crosses the room to turn on the old TV, one so ancient it doesn't even have a remote control and he laughs briefly. When the CRT tubes warm up, I realize I'm looking at four CCTV feeds from around the building. "Keep an eye on them for me, would you," he says to me before setting to work, heading into the apartment's bedroom. I do, but follow him to lean myself in the bedroom's doorway, watching him as he picks out clean jeans, a gray shirt, slate waistcoat and matching blazer.

Then he slides the rest of the clothes aside and pulls off a trio of brown plastic caps from the back wall of the closet that I'd assumed were covering screw heads, revealing three keyholes. Again he brings out the keychain, uses three separate keys to release the locks and then slides the back wall aside to reveal a home-made pegboard armory. It's not the survivalist overload my Dad put together. Instead, Cope appears to have a solid one of everything; heavy custom scope rifle, advanced assault rifle and carbine rifles all made by Vom Feuer. A Shrewsbury sawn-off shotgun. A Hawk & Little Mk2 sub-machine gun. Then there are two .45 pistols and two Law Enforcement-issue 9 millimetre pistols right at the top. He loads and takes one each of those, packs a spare cartridge for each into his jacket pockets. The .45 goes in a shoulder holster. The 9 gets holstered in a dark brown leather brogue boot with gray laces that exactly match his shirt.

I take a glance at the screen. Nothing happening. It's now only just after 4.45am. Turning back, I see Cope laying a gym bag onto the bed, into which he puts the sawn-off with a box of shells and then the carbine rifle with four full-metal cartridges. I return to watch the CCTV while Cope showers and changes and when he comes back out with a first aid kit I help him clean and re-bandage his hands. He pops a couple of painkillers from a plastic tub which then also goes into a jacket pocket, washes them down with a bottle of dark rum that he decants into a hip flask.

We take one last look at the CCTV. A few cars are starting to pass, but it's still quiet. Nonetheless, I draw my pistol, the Vom Feuer automatic I got from the cultists in the desert, as he unlocks the apartment door, resets the alarm and locks the cupboard and then locks the apartment closed behind us. "Follow me but keep back a block or so," he tells me as he unlocks the garage door. I back the Elegy out first and wait while he rolls out in the old Vapid. Once he's manually locked the garage door closed, he climbs back into the Retinue and leads us away.

* * *

We head to an artsy coffee shop down near Vespucci Beach where Paige has invited us to meet her for breakfast. I've not told her about my crew so she hopefully won't know Dakota's observing from across the street, or that Soo-Jin Mun is sitting separately inside at her own table, appearing to be listening to some music on her phone while shopping for motorcycle parts on her laptop. She's actually using a sub-applet from the SecuroServ function on our phones that turns Cope's device into a microphone, transmitting to Soo-Jin over a virtual private network.

We've only just sat down with our coffees when Paige comes in, sits down in the empty seat we've positioned for her and puts a tablet on our table. Immediately, Soo-Jin yelps out and rips the headphones from her ears, spilling her coffee over herself as Cope's phone starts making a very high-pitched squeal. He pushes his seat back intending to stand up but stops when we notice the red dot of a laser-sight moving from the bandage on his right hand, slowly tracing up his arm until it stops on his forehead.

"If you're going to mess around, we can wrap this up _real_ quick," Paige says to us quietly, angrily.

"Ow," Cope complains and pulls the phone out, dropping it on the table. It squeals for a second or so more and then explodes. "Jesus," he snarls.

"Alright," I say, firm but quiet. "Alright, we'll do it your way."

"Good. Bring your friend across the street in," Paige orders. No need to call him, he was listening in as well. She taps on the tablet screen to make the laser sight disappear and a second or two later a little drone flies past the shop's window. While Cope and I watch that go Paige turns her head in Soo-Jin's direction and calls sweetly "you wanna come sit with us hun?"

Soo-Jin grudgingly brings her laptop and the remains of her coffee over, staring down at the stain across her ribbed motorcycle jeans as she comes. She slams her laptop down and then drags a chair across from another table, sighs heavily as she drops onto it. A minute later, Dakota strolls in nonchalantly, having changed into skinny black jeans and a white peplum halterneck with matching white high-heel combat boots. He grabs a chair and places it in reverse-direction at our table to straddle it.

"Alright, from now on you leave the IT stuff to me, if that's the cereal-box s*** you're gonna pull," Paige complains. "I thought you were _professionals_!"

"We are. We're just on our a$$ right now," Cope asserts. Paige glowers at him hard for a second but he holds her gaze until she sighs and lets up.

"Okay. We'll just put it down to first date jitters. And what you went through yesterday," she says, then turns to Dakota. "Why don't you go up and order a deluxe espresso and pastries for all of us?"

He looks at me with a _WTF_ grin on his face. I shrug. He sighs and gets up to go to the counter.

When he's gone, Paige appraises the rest of us. "Rayhan Cope, you I know about. And you, Soo-Jin, so you don't need vouching for. Harvey's vouched for you Coleman, but then I've seen your work first hand so you're good anyway. Who's vouching for _him_?"

"I am," I say firmly.

"Me too. Without him watching the skies for us the other night, we'd all have sank and drowned, _if_ we weren't shot up first by that helicopter gunship," Cope chips in.

"I need to be sure he's going to take this seriously," Paige presses.

"I was with him in Iraq when his brother was killed," I snap. "He's serious."

"Okay," she accepts, sitting back as Dakota returns.

He holds eye contact with her as he throws a selection of paper-packaged food items onto the table and once again straddles his back-to-front chair. "Coffees will be a minute."

"Thanks," Paige acknowledges and once again taps on her screen, putting it in the middle of the table so we can all see. She goes to a website, Warstock Cache and Carry, and brings up a listing for a black truck listed as a Benefactor Terrorbyte. "Alright, if we're all in, this is it. I've already got a design how I want to fit it out. All you've got to do is buy it."

Cope leans in and keeps his voice low. "Seven hundred thousand, are you f*****g crazy? That's gonna clean us out! We've only got two weeks to earn a million!"

He sits back up then and we all go quiet as a waiter with a shaved head and multiple facial piercings brings our drinks over. Paige blacks out the screen on the tablet until he's gone, then leans back in. "If you do this, my way, you'll have your million before the end of your first week. Give me your full _two_ and I _guarantee_ you you'll come out with a serious profit." She sits back, takes a sip of her espresso. "Look, I'm taking a risk here, but I'm bringing you a major opportunity for all of us. You want in, you've got to prove you're serious. This is _my key_ to breaking out from under Lester's shadow. I'm not going to risk blowing it on some chancers."

Cope sighs, shakes his head and looks at me. I'm running some quick calculations in my head. "I can go to maybe two hundred," I say, although it'll be tight.

"I can just about match that, but then I'm flat broke," Cope admits.

"I'll go in a quarter mil," Dakota says, surprising all of us. "Y'know, I got my military payout, and my brother…" He trails off, looks away.

"Thanks Dakota," I say quietly. Fifty G's left. All of us turn towards Soo-jin. She's visibly p*ssed.

"I'll understand if you don't-" Cope starts.

"F*** it. It's for Shirazi, right? But I better be getting somethin' back on my investment," she snaps.

"It's a wise decision. I promise, if you listen to me and do what I say, you won't regret it," Paige says. She downs her espresso in one go. "I'll call you when you've made the purchase and I've got everything ready."

"Hold up," I say. "Harvey said something about you looking at our phones-"

"Didn't you notice? I already did that. You're on _my_ network now," she says, picks up her tablet and heads out.

Soo-Jin stands. "I'll wire you the money," she tells Cope. "And email _you_ the dry-cleaning bill," she snaps at me, showing me the stain on her pants before stomping out through the door.

I exhale deeply. "Are we doing the right thing," I ask.

Dakota shrugs. "Hope so."

Cope sits pensively for a second. "We'll make it work," he sighs at last. "Come on, we need to move."

Cope takes off in the Retinue to go and do whatever it is he does. Actually, I know what he's doing; he and Soo-Jin are renting a box truck and clearing out Jefferies' storage units, taking whatever we might be able to use up to my Dad's place. Hopefully he'll find some replacement phones in one of them because Inquisitor's bill for my new one was _steep_. He's also gathering the funds from us all and arranging the purchase of the Terrorbyte. Meanwhile, Dakota takes me shopping. There's a clothing store only a few blocks away from the coffee shop and, lucky for me, it's cheap.

"A quarter million," I ask him as he leads me inside and starts looking through the racks.

"There's a guy out in Sandy Shores. Bit of an oddball but I run air freight for him," he says with a tilt of the head, then hands me a pair of lightweight camouflage-patterned pants. A pair of olive and a pair of khaki shorts with cargo pockets but much shorter than I'm used to. Another lightweight pair of pants, these ones plain olive. Then he turns around to rifle through a rack of tops, pulls me out a plain black and a plain white tank top, an olive shirt and an olive T-shirt. "These are your basics," he says to me. "You were always all-in about your Army career, so you'll feel more comfortable wearing something that throws back to that. But I don't _ever_ want to see you putting all these together."

"Okay," I agree uncertainly, following him as he leads me across the store to another rack with a faded red 'Sale!' sign taped to the end. He finds me a white blouse, a baggy gray T-shirt and then stops and laughs, pulls a T-shirt out on its hanger so I can see it. "No way," I exclaim, smiling too. Depicted on the shirt is a white Elegy, very similar to my own. "Well, I'll have to have that."

We thread our way around the rest of the racks in the store. He finds some boots that are styled like combat boots but with a looser, more relaxed fit to flare around the ankles, and I pick up a long black and white check shirt that reaches down to my thighs and a pair of denim shorts with turned-up bottoms. I also can't resist picking up a canvas camouflage-patterned jacket, in spite of Dakota's raised eyebrow.

"I was surprised you took my call," I admit.

He slows his search slightly as he considers his response. "I don't know, I guess I kinda been waiting for it ever since. Y'know?"

"Yeah," I say, not sure what else _to_ say. "You know, I replay that day in my head."

"I know. You don't have to say it," he says. Both of us are quiet for a minute after that and he silently slides item after item aside on the rack, but he's not really looking at them. "Both of us would do something different. If we could," he adds quietly, a minute or two later.

"This thing we're doing. Are you _sure_ you're happy to go all in on it?"

"Of course. The hangar pays pretty good, but it's not really challenging, and doing security at a t*tty bar in the boonies is okay, up to a point."

"Wait, what," I ask, incredulously.

"Place needs bouncers," he grins.

"I bet you confuse the hell out of the hicks there!"

"Yeah, that's the _fun_ of it. But I knew as soon as you called me, finally, here was a chance to do something _meaningful_ again." He gets to the end of the last rack and turns back towards me. "Come on, I think you're set. Or," he stops and pulls off something that's just caught his eye, holding it up. It's another camo-patterned item, but it's a knee-length T-shirt dress made of a clingy cotton material.

"Is that for you or me," I ask him suspiciously.

He thrusts it in my direction. "Does it _look_ like _my_ style?"

"What?" I take it hesitantly and look it over uncertainly.

He's looking at me intently. "I think you should try it on. I bet you you'll like it."

I don't know. But, Dakota's talking to me when I thought he'd never want to hear from me again and I wanna keep it that way. There's things that go on at a military base that normal guys don't understand. A certain mentality they think is normal. My Dad gave me my switchblade when I got my first period and I spent all the time between that and the next one learning how to use it. It saved me from unpleasant experiences time and time again in Iraq and the one time it didn't, Dakota and his brother Kaeden did. Dakota had to keep his gender fluidity under wraps in the Army, but even so it was there. In a s***hole half a world away from home, subtleties stand out like sore thumbs so he was subject to a lot of the same abuse that women were. He was one of the few guys that _got_ it.

So I scout around and find a light blue denim jacket and a pair of black canvas shoes with white details and take my haul over to the fitting room at the back. He applauds when I come out wearing them with the dress, and I'm ashamed to admit that I feel kind of nice but, still, I can't get back in and changed into something else quick enough. I decide to keep on the checked shirt with the Elegy T-shirt and the denim shorts with the combat boots. Ball up my outfit from yesterday and ask the bored girl behind the checkout if she can dispose of them for me as I drop the rest of the stuff on the counter. I'm trying to work out how to pay for the stuff using my phone but Dakota puts his hand on it and pushes it downwards, hands the girl his credit card. "Pay me back later," he says. "You should get your hair cut next."

"What," I ask him, slightly confused.

"Look, I know you like your whole _G.I. Jane_ thing you've got going on, but the thing is, you're recognisable. And," he starts, but trails off as if he's unsure he should voice the thought.

"And what," I prompt, with a half-smile.

He weighs up whether or not to answer, then decides why not. "And it's not like you ever got a say in your own look before. You're Dad's gone. Maybe it's time for the _real_ you to step forward."

Cope laughs encouragingly at the sight of me as I step out of the Elegy at the meeting point after sundown. He'd called me at just after 10am to tell me all the money was in place and he was making the purchase. I was still in traffic, following Dakota's Dinka towards Rockford Hills when he called back a half hour later to confirm the truck was bought and Paige had ordered us to lie low until sundown. That gave me more free time than I know what to do with, but I lost a good chunk of it behind the a$$hole in front of Dakota who seemed like he was waiting for the traffic light to turn _purple_.

Then I spent a few hours at the Bob Mulet hair salon where Eastbourne Way meets Mad Wayne Thunder Drive. My mood had turned as sour as the air in the Elegy. I'm gonna have to take it back to LS Customs and have them service the aircon. Dakota remained still quietly optimistic as he introduced me to a bald African-American in an immaculate blazer over a pink shirt and jeans so tight I wouldn't be surprised if they'd been painted on. He greeted Dakota with a loose hug and air kisses each side of his face and then turned to me and asked "My, oh my, just _what_ are we going to do with you?" The voice was extremely effeminate but I suspect they might have been male. But I'm not 100%. I didn't want my hair cutting, but remembering Soo-Jin's purple hair, I asked about having a strong color.

"You said her name was Winter, right," the hairdresser rhetorically asked Dakota. "I know _just_ what you need!"

* * *

Even Soo-Jin is grinning at me and affirms "nice," as I tie up my electric blue hair in a loose ponytail. I'm still wearing the check shirt unbuttoned over the Elegy T-shirt and shorts. A minute or so later we're joined by Paige who pulls up in a black Grainger SUV. She rolls her eyes at me silently and then beckons for us to follow her into the unoccupied warehouse she'd bought us to under the La Mesa flyover. She pulls up first to a roller shutter door which opens for her and she drives down. I go next in the Elegy, Soo-Jin on her motorcycle behind me. Cope allows Dakota to go before him and he brings up the rear in his Retinue. It seems like the warehouse has a number of sub-levels as we follow the ramp down deeper and deeper until finally we come to the bottom and park up in a cavernous chamber where the black Benefactor truck awaits us. "I hope you've all rested up because we're gonna _go_ ," she tells us as we all get out of our cars, but then she scowls at our choices of outfits. "Did _none_ of you think to wear anything _black_?"

All of us laugh this time as Cope pops the trunk of the Retinue, hands a zip-up suit bag to each of us and we change into armored black combat gear. He's got us all an identical black motocross helmet, rigged with hands-free communications that connect wirelessly to our phones. "These were the best I could get from what was left of Jefferies' storage," he explains as he hands them out.

"They'll do," I acknowledge. It's only 90 seconds before we're all suited up, got our street clothes stashed in our cars and climbing onboard the Terrorbyte.

"You're driving," Paige instructs Cope as we climb aboard the Terrorbyte.

"Alright," he accepts and makes his way towards the front cab, climbing over rubble and through an opening to the cab that can be best described as troublesome.

"Seven hundred and fifty grand for this piece of junk," Soo-Jin complains as Cope climbs his way over.

"Where are we headed," he calls back, ignoring her.

"Hang on," Paige says, working with a piece of equipment taking up the front right corner of the cargo bay. She gives it a sharp whack on the side grumbling about leftover junk before it comes online. "Alright, lemme get a signal… okay. The target's mobile, but they're currently heading towards Vespucci."

"Alright," Cope acknowledges and gets the rig moving.

Paige slides her seat aside so we can see the screen of the piece of tech she's working on. "Last year, Lester had a, err, subcontractor liberate some prototype surveillance equipment from the FIB, like an upgraded version of the out-of-date system the LSPD uses. He kept one and sold the other three. We're out to get one of them back. I can't afford to _buy_ it, the crew using it have already turned it into a goldmine so we're gonna have to take it by force."

"What does this tech do," I ask. "Will they be able to see us coming?"

"It pulls private data from home Wi-Fi networks. Lets you know anything about anybody. The crew using it have been extorting drivers of armored trucks and bank managers to pull off heists without anybody ever being alerted until after the money's gone. It leaves a very faint signature but I've managed to figure out the frequency from Lester's. When it's on the move, it means they're on a job so hopefully they'll be more focused on their target than on us. Nonetheless, I've encrypted your phones so if they _can_ spot our signal then I'm probably gonna have to install some sort of Faraday cage in here."

"Is this windshield armored," Cope calls back from the driver's seat.

"Not yet," Paige admits, getting a groan in response.

"What else do we know about our mark," Soo-Jin asks. "Vehicles? Weapons? Backgrounds?"

"It's a Korean gang, seems like they either work for or pay tribute to the Khangphae. The vehicle's a Karin Kuruma but it's got some military-grade armor plating. Bullet-proof glass and protective frame blocking the windows."

"S***. Wish I still had my Dad's Imponte," I curse.

"We're gonna hang back until we know they've found their mark. That's the only point at which they'll be vulnerable," Paige continues. "Expect automatic weapons of questionable legality." That gets a chuckle from the rest of us.

"Nine mil machine pistols mainly," Soo-Jin tells us.

"You spent some time with these guys," Dakota asks her.

"Some of my cousins are into 'em," she replies.

"Change of direction – it's moving around Del Perro," Paige interrupts. "It's definitely slowing down so they're searching for someone in that area."

"On it," calls Cope and floors it. The truck's not exactly fast, but it's moving beyond a pace where any of us in the back are overly comfortable. "Update," he demands as we start to slow for the intersection of San Andreas and Bay City Avenue, past the Burger Shot to where the Crown Jewels Motel is located.

"Circling around Del Perro, they're definitely on the hunt," Paige confirms. Then "they've stopped!"

"Address," Cope demands.

"It's a beachfront apartment block. 1375 Great Ocean Highway," she confirms.

"Oh, _s***_!"

"Cope," I ask.

"That's Eliza's place," he says, his voice tight.

"Oh, _s***_ ," I agree and feel a cold knot form tightly in my chest.

The rig won't move any faster than it already is, but we can all feel Cope trying to force it to anyway.

I look towards Paige, wondering if she had anything to do with this. She's white, looks like she's going to be sick, so I'm guessing not. Behind me, Soo-Jin is checking her weapon is full metal and the safety's off. I draw the Vom Feuer and do the same.

* * *

Cope pulls up so hard and so fast that we nearly ram into the parked Kuruma and all of us in the back have to hold on to something to stop being slammed into the bulkhead. Soo-Jin, Dakota and I pile out of the back of the truck and rush towards the armored car, but there's nobody inside.

"Weird," I say aloud, get glances of acknowledgement from the others. Then we turn our attention to the apartment. Soo-Jin takes position by the front entrance to the property. Cope takes shelter behind our truck. I take the left of the building while Dakota threads his way around the right. We rendezvous at the rear, neither of us having found any signs of anybody or any forced break in. That's when the first sniper bullet slams into Soo-Jin's chest plate.

"S***, it's an ambush! Abort," Paige screams over our headsets. I turn to sprint back, to help Cope drag Soo-Jin back into the truck but gunfire from the beach slams into the cladding of the apartment building around me and I'm forced to dive for cover. I hear Dakota returning fire from his side, but as much as I scan the beach, I can't see where the shots are coming from.

I'm hit by a sudden realisation. "Cope, move the truck," I scream.

"On it," he affirms. I hear Paige arguing, but a couple of seconds later, I hear the engine spark and the gears grind before Cope hits the gas. It's barely a second later that the Kuruma explodes.

"F***," Cope curses sharply. "The truck's took some damage," he adds a second later.

"Go if you need to," I order.

"Sorry. We're sitting ducks out here and Soo-Jin's hurt."

"It's just a graze," I hear her complain in the background.

"What about you two," cuts in Paige.

"We'll manage," Dakota tells her. From beyond the apartment building, we hear the truck struggling away, taking a few more sniper shots until it's engine noise recedes into the distance.

We waste no time in moving. Dakota makes his way into the building through a side door on his side and radios me to tell me when the front door's open. I haul a$$ back to the roadside and across the front of the building as a couple more sniper shots punch holes into the building and shower me with masonry dust until I'm inside and the door's slammed shut behind us.

Dakota puts a finger to his lips, but I was already in the process of making the same gesture. He takes point and the two of us make our way as quietly as we can up the internal staircase, sweeping with our weapons for intruders, until we get to the top floor where Eliza undoubtedly has her apartment.

I know nothing about disabling explosive devices but Dakota seems to have a knack for it, and indeed the entrance to Eliza's apartment is rigged. "Do you still have that flick-knife," he whispers, pushing the door gently open only a crack. The inaccuracy makes me wince but I hand him my switchblade. He flips out the blade and reaches upwards over the top of the door to slice through a piece of trip wire and hurriedly pulls the door closed again in case there should be a secondary trip. Nothing explodes so he gingerly pushes the door further open and peers inside for any further surprises awaiting us but it seems to be clear. I'm about to follow him in and start sweeping for intruders, but Dakota holds an arm up across my midriff, blocking me. I see what he's wanting to show me; the patio door is open. Wide open. Dakota takes the package bomb from above the entrance door and throws it into the apartment and the two of us retreat back towards the corridor, expecting sniper fire. Neither of us expected a f***ing rocket-propelled grenade to sail in and explode, throwing fire and shrapnel all around.

My ears are ringing and I realise I must have blacked out. Can't hear anything or make sense of the world around me. I can hear my unit shouting and gunfire overhead and I know it's not real but for a minute I'd swear I was back in Iraq. _Get a hold of yourself Soldier_ I snap at myself mentally and gradually my focus returns to the here and now.

My right arm is a mess of blood with multiple fragments of glass and shrapnel impaling the full length of it. There's a few more in my right side. I spend a minute pulling out the biggest of them and trying to get the attention of Dakota. His physical injuries are on a par with mine, but he's not doing so good. A couple of fires are blazing inside the apartment and everything that had been in there is ruined.

"Kaeden! Kaeden," Dakota shouts, looking frantically around for his brother as he sits himself up and scrambles into cover.

"Dakota! Quiet," I plead, but he's not here with me.

"Kaeden," he screams again.

My ears are still ringing, but I'm sure I can hear footsteps coming from below. I wish I'd had the foresight to pack one of my Shrewsbury assault rifles. "Corporal," I snap at Dakota. "Get your head in the game and get quiet. We got insurgents coming from lower ground and snipers beyond the window. We need to clear the path out and ensure safe passage!"

"Yes, Sergeant," he affirms and scrambles to take cover behind the ruined sofa so he can try and locate our sniper beyond the patio window. He's carrying a Coil Combat PDW, full auto but with a limited rate of fire compared to the carbines we're used to. It makes up for it with an increased effective range. I just hope it's gonna be enough.

I peer down over the staircase. Can't see anything yet, but there's only two storeys to climb, the staircase split into four zig-zagging sections. I'm still not sure I'm actually hearing them approach. Behind me I hear Dakota's weapon spit a single round and then he curses "s***!"

There's _definitely_ footsteps now. I see black and let rip with the Vom Feuer, making them shrink back into cover, but then they reach around with a carbine rifle and I'm sent scurrying backwards into the apartment where I stumble awkwardly before tripping over a jagged piece of rubble that probably used to be a cupboard. Falling on my a$$ saves my life as a high-calibre hole is punched into the wall behind where my head had been a split second before. I scramble over broken sharp s*** under the window while Dakota shifts his attention to the guys coming up the stairs. His PDW is a better match for their firepower than my Vom Feuer, but they have better cover.

Dakota's head seems to be clearing as he alternates exchanging fire and ducking into cover. I spot a broken piece of mirror and grab for it to try and get a fix on the sniper's position, but it's immediately shot out of my hand and I pull it quickly back to me, fearing it's been blown off. As it is, I just have lots of new tiny cuts from the glass exploding, but I'm starting to lose the battle with my own sense of panic.

In the wall to my left is the entrance to Eliza's bedroom, and I dart inside. There's another full-length patio door in here, but it's closed and beyond the bedroom is an en-suite bathroom which I all but dive into so I can start rifling through her cabinet for bandages and antiseptic. As I'm grabbing stuff, the patio window smashes and then a hole is blown through the tiles above me. I drop with a yell onto the ground just as another hole is punched through the wall. I don't wait for the third shot and launch myself into the bathtub, curling up into a foetal position.

The noise of Dakota's gunfight drums into my brain. I'm not in Los Santos anymore. A ruined APC is smoking and immobile, the undercarriage ripped apart by the IED it had driven over, not ten feet away from the ditch I'm in with four other guys. Kaeden Rune lies dead on the other side of it, the man I'd slept with. Pinned down on the other side, his brother Dakota has a clear view of the fatal wound where a sniper's bullet has torn his face open, another pierced his chest armor. I'd learn later that his eyes would remain fixed on the remaining eye of his dead brother until we found an opening in which to return fire and start the long firefight that would get us out of here. Damn it, I'd not been paralysed then, why can't I move now?

"Stairway's clear," Dakota shouts. That makes no sense, we're in a street on the outskirts of Baghdad. Somewhere far at the back of my mind, I know Dakota never said a word, never screamed, quietly and methodically hammered his way through the targets that fired down on us, holding up the rear even as we beat our retreat.

Something else that doesn't make sense; there's a woman talking to me. I'm going mad and I'm going to die here in the dirt.

"Come _on_ Sergeant," Dakota says and suddenly he's looming over me, pulling me out of the bathtub. More sniper fire punches into the apartment around us as he drags me back through the bedroom and to the apartment door, but before leaving, I turn my attention to where Kaeden should be.

It's not him; it's my Dad on the sofa in the ranch house. Dakota's trying to pull me onwards, but another stupid thing has caught my attention. To the right of our exit is the kitchen, and the washing machine has a full load inside it. I don't know why I'm thinking of taking Eliza some clothes, but Dakota grabs me around the waist and pulls me towards the door. As I fight to go back, I see it's no longer my Dad that's dead; it's Shirazi. While I'm trying to make sense of that, the woman talks to me again.

"Found him; he's too far out at sea so I'm gonna arrange a little distraction. Be ready to move when I say."

"Who's that," I ask.

"I don't know," Dakota replies, setting me down on the landing so I can follow him down the stairs. "She's just came in on the frequency and told us to hang tight while she buys us a safe window."

I'm feeling shaky. I follow Dakota down, past the bodies of the men that had been coming up for us. I don't need to see faces, I can tell from the gear they're wearing. This is Merryweather again. Dakota stops to retrieve one of their weapons and pats over the corpse of its former owner until he finds two spare clips. I do likewise and now I'm armed with a far better weapon than the Vom Feuer I'd foolishly relied on for this op. We're still careful as we creep quietly down the stairs. The two apartments on the second floor have both been abandoned, doors wide open. Dakota checks one while I watch his back, and then we switch roles while I clear the other one, and then we make our way down to the first floor. Another apartment door is wide open. We check it's clear and take shelter inside while we await further contact from the woman in our earpieces.

"Sergeant," Dakota asks me.

"Yeah?"

"Something happened up there," he admits, quietly.

"I know. Me too. Still is happening," I reply.

He looks at me with a mix of concern and understanding. "We're getting out of here," he tells me positively. "And then we're gonna _deal_ with this."

I'm going to reply, but the voice over our radio interrupts, says "move on my mark. Three. Two. One. Go!"

We haul out of the apartment. I'm expecting to get shot, or else for something else to explode. That isn't what happens. Loud music and motorcycle engines blare out from the beach behind us and as I turn back, I see a full biker gang roaring onto the beach directly in front of the apartment looking to get ready for a raucous beach party. At first I'm worried it's The Lost MC, but the logo on their backs is different, seems to be a trio of burning skulls from what I can see. We don't have time to hang around and join in and we dart as fast as we can to the front of the building. There's a couple more dead Merryweather goons out there. One of them is the guy that had crucified Cope out at the mansion yesterday. I'm just reflecting on what a shame it is Cope didn't get to kill him personally when a dark blue Obey Tailgater pulls up. It's subtle but there are clear signs of extensive modification; it sits lower on a set of Cosmic alloy wheels painted in a hue that matches the car's bodywork, a set of beefy racing brake callipers clearly visible through the Y-spokes. There's a spoiler on the back and an exhaust note that suggests this thing's packing some power.

"There's your ride, keep your helmets on. The driver knows what's up," the woman in our earpieces tells us, and when we open the doors it's clear that the interior trim has been reinforced with Kevlar. The driver's visibly nervous and she wastes no time in flooring it once we're in the car. She doesn't talk to us and we don't say anything to her or to each other as she drives us all the way back to La Mesa. Suits me, because all I'm thinking is how much the owner of this car won't appreciate me throwing up on its upholstery.

The car is clearly fast, but the woman keeps her speed down as she drives us across the city, slowing for traffic lights, being a good girl. Once we get to downtown, finally the queasiness begins to subside and I can start to consider Dakota who's sat next to me, his helmeted head turned away as he watches the city passing through the window. For a split second, the street in Iraq comes back to me.

Before that day, the abuse he'd endured for his effeminacy had been relentless. Nobody ever dared say _anything_ to him after. He'd go on to be involved in firefights on the ground and in the air and he'd always be the first one in, last one out, right up until they shipped him home and he got discharged three months after.

* * *

Our driver drops us outside the warehouse on La Mesa, drives smoothly away once we're out of the car. The heavy door rolls up for us when we remove our helmets in view of the CCTV camera and we make our way down to where we left our cars.

The Terrorbyte is down there with visible damage to it's passenger-side front corner. A despondent Paige is working on a laptop not far from where a despondent Soo-Jin is sat on the floor putting a bandage over her chest. Her eyes meet mine briefly as we walk into the chamber before she drops them back to her task. Cope dashes over and embraces me, and then Dakota a little more awkwardly. "I'm glad you two made it," he tells us.

"They weren't Koreans," I say, with more anger than I'd expected in my voice. "That was f*****g Merryweather!"

"I know," Paige admits, closing her laptop and taking a couple of steps towards us. "They found the Korean crew shot up in an apartment in Little Seoul about twenty minutes ago. Clearly you guys have a marker on you." It's clear from her tone and her body language that she's as angry as I am.

"Our friends from yesterday," Cope asks.

I nod towards his hands. "Whoever it was came to help us got the guy that did that to you," I tell him and he nods, looks down clenching his jaw. I turn to Paige. "Was she one of yours?"

"No," she says firmly, her nose slightly upturned. "Although we crossed paths a year or so back. Harvey knows her."

That surprises me, or would do if I wasn't suddenly bone tired and feeling filthy. "Alright, so what now?"

"Now I go back to doing everything for Lester while he takes all the credit," Paige complains. "I put my everything into this."

"We're not done yet," Cope tells her. "We'll figure out why Merryweather has us in their crosshairs and we'll deal with it."

"In the meantime, I know someone who can take a look at the truck," I say, remembering the guy I bought the Elegy from. "Don't worry, he'll be discreet."

"Alright," she sighs. "Alright. I'll do whatever I can to help. I just _really_ wanted putting my trust in a crew to work out this time. I'll get back to Lester's place and see what I can pick up from there," she says, picking up her laptop. Without another word, she gets into the Grainger and drives away.

"Are you okay," I ask Soo-Jin. I'd not deliberately walked over to her, just the Elegy was that way.

"Fine," she replies, pulling her shirt back down and standing up to pull her leather jacket on. "Bullet went through my armor, but not deep enough to do any real damage. Just gonna have an ugly-a$$ new scar," she pouts.

"I've been collecting more of those since I got out than I _ever_ got overseas," I say and carry on towards the Elegy to change out of the combat gear into some of my own clothes. I don't realise until I'm stripped to my underwear that Soo-Jin has approached and she's watching me.

"Jesus," she breathes, looking at all the injuries I've picked up this last few days. " _That's_ what you were showing them on that yacht?"

"You're only just getting it?" She winces and I realise that came out sharper than I'd meant it to.

She shakes her head, holds her hands up in apology. "I'm sorry. I didn't realise…"

"It's okay," I say, pulling the first thing I grab from the shopping bag of clothes I'd picked up this morning with Dakota. It's the camo dress. I'm tempted to throw it back in my trunk and pull out something else, but then I stop, consider it for a second before pulling it on. I turn back to say something else to Soo-Jin but she's already climbed onto her motorbike and is pulling her helmet on. I'm pulling on the canvas shoes when she fires it up and rides out and Cope walks over to me. "I'm heading over to Harvey's place. Eliza's called, wants to go home. I've not told her about the attack yet-"

"Yeah, she's gonna need a new place to stay," I interrupt. His mouth drops open in surprise. "They were waiting for us. Tried to take us out with an RPG."

"Jesus Christ," he exclaims and hangs about stunned until he realizes I want him out of my personal space. "Are you okay," he asks me, taking a step back but still getting on my nerves checking out the hastily applied bandages around my arm and hand.

"I'm fine," I assure him. "I just need to blow off a little steam."

"Oh."

"Problem?"

"No. Just… I was gonna meet up with Devon. You know the guy who-"

"I remember," I say. The guy who works for the traffic management centre. "Fine. I'll look after Eliza."

"You sure," he asks me.

"Just go," I say. Finally he gets the hint and heads over to his Retinue.

Dakota joins me as Cope drives away. "Thought of somebody you'd like to impress," he asks me, looking me up and down. "I _knew_ it'd look good on you."

"I was thinking about it, but I gotta babysit," I complain.

"You mean, whats-her-name, Eliza? The girl who's apartment we just trashed?"

"That's her," I tell him and he smiles.

"Don't worry about it. I'll look after her. Same as I looked after you," he adds.

"You sure you don't mind?"

"Nah. It'll be fun. After that, I could use some retail therapy."

* * *

We find Eliza pacing the living room while Harvey carries on his DIY. He notices my arm and clearly wants to ask me if I'm alright but to his credit he minds his own business. So Eliza does it instead.

"You might want to sit down" I tell her.

I wasn't sure if she'd cry, scream, punch me in the face, but all she does is sit there numbly when I tell her. I have no idea how to follow up, but Dakota sits next to her and hooks his arm for her to take. "The good news is, you get to pick a whole new wardrobe," he beams enthusiastically.

"What about my other furniture," she replies with a weak smile.

"Oh, we have a comedienne. I _knew_ this was going to be fun," Dakota says. He helps her up and gently guides her towards the door, asking her what her favorite clothing brands are, keeping her distracted as he whisks her out.

Finally, Harvey and I are alone. "I'll leave you to it," he starts.

"Do you like my new dress," I ask him.

"Yeah," he says quickly. "Very nice. Your hair, too…"

He's standing awkwardly, which should be my warning to drop it, but I don't do this so I can't read the signs. "Do you have a girlfriend, Shaun," I ask coyly, slowly pressing myself to him and putting me arms around his neck.

"Kind of," he says, looks down. "I mean… I like her. I've _always_ liked her. She's just got some things to deal with at the minute."

S***. This sign I can definitely read. I drop my arms and step back quickly. "Um… I'm sorry," I start.

He shakes his head. "It's okay." Still stands there unmoving.

"Need to call that lawyer and see if we can get the money moving, huh," I say, trying to force cheerfulness.

"No rush. I'm sorry, Winter…"

"Don't be. Just… rather than all this awkwardness, do you mind if I just go out and get laid?"

"Please do," he says. "I'll clear my stuff out."

I'm not sure how to respond, so I don't. I go into my room to take a shower, put the dress back on and call Inquisitor on my way out to the Elegy. "I'm on my way to the Yellow Jack. Be there when I arrive," I say and hang up.

When I walk into the bar I get a wolf whistle. I'm half expecting a slap on my a$$, but Inquisitor fixes the redneck with a hard glare so I instead get a tip of his hat and an apologetic "ma'am," before he slides his half-finished beer towards the bartender and makes an embarrassing exit.

"Get yourself a beer and come join me round the back, Sergeant," he greets, then turns his head towards the woman behind the bar. "It's on my tab."

"Whatcha want honey," she asks me.

"Whatever beer's best," I say and she sets to work pulling me a tankard of something on draft. "Thanks," I say when she sets it on the bar between us. Pick it up and go join Inquisitor at the table where he'd killed The Lost member Katie and I had dragged across the desert.

"That's a new look for you," he says and raises his own glass of beer towards his mouth.

"You like it," I ask, holding his eye. He pauses, glass almost to his lips, then puts it back down on the table. "Sergeant Coleman, what are you doing?"

"My name's Winter," I say. Softly.

He closes his eyes and sighs, opens them again and drains half his beer. "Whatever you're thinking, it's a very bad idea."

"Well, I wasn't thinking the pool table," I say, but he's not in the mood. "Fine," I snap at his scowl. "Then make yourself useful and tell me why the f*** Merryweather still have us greenlit."

"What do you mean," he asks, surprised.

"Eliza's apartment got grenade after they lured us there," I tell him.

"Lured you there, how," he asks me back, not responding to my growing anger.

"What does that matter," I snap. "Fact is, they set a trap which nearly got us killed. At least one of the same a$$holes from yesterday."

"Alright. I'll look into it."

"At least you're looking into _something_ ," I sulk.

Irritation briefly shows on his face as he downs the rest of his beer and sets the glass heavily back onto the table. "Go home, Sergeant," he says, stands up and strides out.

I hang around briefly while I drink my beer, idly watching the old hicks sat at the bar, wondering if any of 'em will get up the stones to come and talk to me. In the end I get fed up of being left alone so I come up with _another_ bad idea.

* * *

I feel slightly less nervous in the Elegy sat watching the biker clubhouse near the race track. If any of 'em have any concerns about me sitting there, they aren't showing it. Late night gives way to early morning. Maybe I ought to go to bed, or find an adult shop and see to myself alone. But just as I'm about to give up altogether, finally I see Paxton Cole walk out and get on his bike. There's some other guys with him and for a moment I'm worried that they're gonna ride off in convoy, but he hangs back while they ride off without him, and finally he's on the street alone. I turn on the headlights, spark up the engine and roll slowly to the intersection. He's got his head turned in my direction to watch me coming, laughs when I get out of the car and cross the street over to him.

"For a moment Sergeant, I thought you were someone coming to kill me."

I walk over and stand by his bike so he can see me properly. "I kind of had other ideas," I say in what I hope is an alluring tone. "Do you like my dress?"

His eyes widen. I can see he wants to look me up and down, and in the end he drops his head to get a look at my legs. "Sergeant?"

"Winter," I correct.

"Winter," he agrees, and raises his gaze back up to meet mine. "You look nice," he admits, but there's an uncertainty in his voice. "Are you sure-"

"I've already gone to a lot of trouble to try and get laid tonight. You're not gonna let me down too, are you?"

"Oh, hell no," he admits, but then glances over his shoulder back towards the clubhouse. "Only, you don't want me to take you in there…"

"You don't have anywhere more private?"

"No. I'm either in there with twenty other people, or at a trailer with the same deal." He eyes my Elegy then looks at me questioningly.

"No way. It's far too cramped."

"Okay. Alright, follow me. I know a place," he says.

* * *

I'm expecting a fleapit, but he takes me to The Crown Jewels motel. It's upmarket for what it is, the owners having made an effort to try and make it nice, but it's still perfect for the kind of action Cole gives me, and he's far better suited to the kind of action I wanna give back than Harvey would have been.

He'd reached to put his arms around me, trying to take control when we first got inside, but I swept them away and pushed on his chest. Not hard, just enough to let him know I wanted him on the bed. He dropped onto it, his brown eyes gazing up at me as I crawled on top of him, kicking off my boots at the foot of the bed. He starts sliding his hand up the back of my dress going for my panties, so I have to take hold of his wrists and throw them to the bed and then I reach down to unfasten his belt and his jeans. He helps me and moves obligingly as I peel them and his underwear off him and then allows me to straddle him, raising the hem of my dress so that I can grind myself against his exposed manhood. I feel him rising rapidly through the fabric of my panties as I writhe myself against him, matching the increasing intensity of my own arousal so it's not long before we can both feel the material moistening. I reach down to try and pull them aside, but they give too much cover so I have to awkwardly raise myself to slide them off before lowering myself back to where I was before. Cole can only resist me continuing to writhe against him, bare skin to bare skin, for a few seconds but then he has to gently push inside me. I was ready for it myself and an intense wave of pleasure momentarily paralyses me, threatening to push me instantly to climax. I realize Cole is reaching again to try and lift off my dress so I take his wrists and pin them to the bed above his head so now I'm knelt over him rather than sat upright astride him.

As we find our rythmn I realize he's intently studying my face. "Kiss me," he breathes softly when he knows I've noticed, a request instead of an instruction. He repeats it more insistently when I hesitate, so I relent and then _oh boy_... As his lips find mine, and then likewise his tongue, the feelings intensify and suddenly it's more than I can bear and I'm lost in the grip of ecstacy. Before I know it, I realize I'm clinging on to him tightly with my arms and legs. When I dare find his face, he's beaming, and now he takes over control, holding me to him while he stands up, carries me over to a wall and pins me there with his body, still with him connected to me deeply and now he's the one doing the writhing, peppering soft kisses on my neck that soon give way to his tongue licking at me, pushing me quickly to the edge of control once more.

Bright daylight is streaming through the curtains when I'm woken by my phone. I'm not exactly laid on Cole's chest, but we still passed out pretty close together after we exhausted each other. I check the caller on the display before I answer it; Cope.

"Everything okay," I ask as I answer it.

"It is my end, how about you?"

"Fine. Can I call you back?"

"Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"I'm not sure yet," I reply. Cole has woken up next to me and he's watching me.

"Winter," Cope says with a serious tone.

"You worry about yourself for a while," I tell him.

"Alright, well, Paige seems to have cooled off and she's wanting to regroup. Think you'll be done to join us at the Cool Beans coffee shop across the road in a half hour?"

That makes me sit up. "Jesus, you know where I am?"

"Paige does. And who you're with," he admits and then hangs up on me.

"S***," I sigh, falling back onto the bed.

Cole gently traces down the lacework of healing cuts on my arm with his forefinger. Last night, I'd been dreading him taking my dress off and seeing the extent of injuries hidden underneath. When he had done, he'd spent only a second or so gazing down at them, then traced a finger gently up my belly, between my breasts to my chin and pushed my head up gently to meet his eyes, then told me softly that he thought I was amazing. "Everything okay," he asks me now.

"Work," I admit.

"That sucks. I was hoping for round six."

I laugh. "More like four, at the most."

He laughs at that, but then his expression turns slightly serious. "You still hanging around with the guy you were with the other day?"

"I am. We're working to earn enough to be our own bosses," I say. He still has a serious expression which is starting to make me question my choices last night. "Cole?"

"It's okay. Just…"

"Are you gonna come out with it or am I gonna have to see if Robles wants the next one," I say, getting impatient. He's not sure whether to laugh or give me a stark warning about going ahead with _that_ bad idea.

"I'm trusting you," he finally says. "I bought you into my alliance. It's already shaky. Now this, which I hope wasn't just you using me."

"Maybe a little," I say, but I'm smiling.

"Can't blame you. I _am_ a dish," he smiles back. "Just, I don't want to have to worry about you coming after our business again, after I let you in."

"No," I say. "Like I told you. We're trying to set up on our own. We've got some things to do to try and achieve that, but it's not gonna be stepping on your toes. I promise. We're trying to get past that."

"Okay," Cole agrees and perks up, slightly. "They say you had a half hour?"

"Longer than you need, but still, I gotta shower," I say.

"Good idea. I'll join you," he beams.

So, yeah...

Finally, we get done and get dressed, and we head out.

"There's a pool," I notice.

"Bring your bikini next time," Cole grins.

"I just might," I say, popping the trunk of my Elegy and rifling through it for some clothes that will be better for meeting Paige and the crew.

"Shame you don't still have those shorts and fishnets," Cole says, peering in over my shoulder.

"You liked that, huh?"

"I'm a straight guy with eyeballs in my head. Of course I did."

"Next time."

"Promises, promises," he says, climbing onto his bike.


	8. Chapter 8

Cope and Soo-Jin are already inside the Cool Beans coffee shop when I walk in, and so are Eliza and Dakota. "Where's Paige," I ask.

"On her way," Cope says. He's wearing a half smile which I'm not sure I want to punch off his face so I ignore him for now.

"Did you manage to save anything," I ask Eliza in a warmer tone of voice as I sit down with them.

"A little. A few clothes, couple of belongings." She's putting a brave face on but I know she's not happy.

"I'm sorry about how this turned out," I say.

"It's okay. At least I don't have to put up with Jefferies anymore, right?"

"Never again," Dakota adds and she smiles at him. If I was in any position to be raising an eyebrow right now…

"While we have a few minutes, I wanted to talk to you guys about Merryweather," she adds. "Inquisitor told us Stamp was the leak, but surely she'd _hate_ Merryweather? Why would she be working with them?"

Cope and I exchange a glance. We've been thinking the same thing. "Whoever was _really_ setting us up, I don't think we've got to the bottom of it yet," he agrees.

"What do we do about that," I ask.

"Well, I might not be an expert soldier or anything, but I can tell you my computer was secure," Eliza says. "I swept it regularly. Henry Wood gave me some useful tools, and I taught myself a few other tricks online. There's no way Ant Macfarland got the intel about our cargo from _our_ end. And unless Stamp had another phone, that was so encrypted that it didn't emit a traceable signal from inside the office or anywhere in the vicinity of her SecuroServ phone, she didn't tell anyone about the cargo at any point between Jefferies sending you for it and you getting to the crash site."

"So SecuroServ still has a mole," I conclude.

"We should maybe have a little talk with Macfarland," Cope suggests.

"Heads up," Soo-Jin warns and we all quieten and sit back as Paige enters and joins us. She doesn't look like she's slept.

"Been watching us all night," I ask her.

To her credit, she takes a second to consider her answer. "I already told you I'm trusting you with everything I've been working for. So when I get an alert that you're making cosy with The Lost MC, that has me worried."

"You bugging me, too," Soo-Jin demands with obvious irritation. "Seems to me who a person spends their downtime with is nobody's business but theirs."

"Look. I'm not watching you live in real time. I just get an alert when you go to certain places that'd give me reason to question your motives. Surely you can't deny a Lost MC clubhouse qualifies?"

"B*tch, I live in the middle of Little Seoul. You gonna be getting alerts every time I go to the _bathroom_ ," Soo-Jin snaps.

"Alright," Cope interjects sharply, halting what would otherwise quickly escalate into a very heated argument. "So Paige is tracking us. I'm not happy about that, but I get it. She's got an investment to protect, but _so do we_." He's looking at Paige now. "The stuff we do, the s*** we deal with, we _need_ our downtime. Now, we might not approve of who anybody else picks for a choice of partner, but Soo-Jin's right; that ain't up to the rest of us. Track us if you _have_ to, but from now on keep it to yourself unless you can prove one of us is screwing over the rest."

Soo-Jin pounds on the table in agreement and I feel a little less hostile. I'm getting a questioning look from Dakota and Eliza just looks confused.

"Fair enough," Paige accepts.

"Apart from us, who else knows your plans," I ask.

"Nobody," Paige says.

"It's bugging me that Merryweather somehow got hold of the tech _you_ were tracking to lure us to Eliza's apartment."

"I've spent the whole night trying to find out why Merryweather are after you," she snaps. "It's not much of a stretch that they'd want some high-tech surveillance gear to try and find you. The guys they killed for it weren't exactly subtle…"

"I'll vouch for that," Soo-jin chips in. All eyes turn in her direction. "What? I told you, I've got cousins that are Khangphae. I live in Little Seoul. I _hear_ things."

"Alright," I sigh. I'm still not satisfied, but at least it _sort of_ makes sense. "Let's get breakfast and then we'll get down to business. I assume there _is_ business?"

All of us head to the counter to order coffee and any of a number of highly processed food options that my Dad always told me would rot my teeth and harden my arteries. Nonetheless, _no_ ghost or demon is going to get between me and bacon, especially not with all the other s*** we've got on our plate. Once all of us have been served, Paige retrieves her tablet from her handbag and lays it on the table in the middle of us all.

"After our initial outing, and finding out what we found out," she adds in an annoyed tone. "I thought from now on we should use more protection. Last year, there were a couple of raids on the Humane Labs facility. One of the crews stole a couple of Insurgent APC's that the Feds were testing. They were seized afterwards as part of the follow-up investigation but nobody was ever caught. These two Insurgents were technically still evidence so the Feds can't use them, but they don't have the space to store them either so they're sitting in a salvage yard in East Los Santos."

"They sound like something we could put to good use," I say.

"I'm glad you agree. Now there's just the small matter of how the hell we're gonna get them out of the place. It's not a Fed sight, but they're paying the owners to look after them real good." She turns her attention towards Dakota. "I hear you're a pilot. I could do with getting a good aerial view of the place."

"I can take you up, if you don't mind getting your shoes dirty in Sandy Shores," he taunts.

"My shoes will be fine. I'm not sure the dust will agree with my equipment," Paige complains.

"An aerial layout is useful but we're still gonna need to map the place out from the ground," I say. "Who's to say, even if we can get to these things, they're even gonna start?"

"If it's a salvage yard," Soo-Jin grins. "All I need is a pick-up truck and I have _just_ the cover story."

* * *

We don't have a pick up truck, but a half hour and a call from Paige to Lester later, we do. We don't want the LSPD spotting us in it after the owner notices it gone so we take it to the LS Customs garage where I got the Elegy. The mechanic is surprised and a little wary to see me, but I assure him that the Elegy's great and he relaxes a little. There's a few customer cars and a some other people working today so he leads us to a makeshift office to talk business.

"The truck's borrowed," I explain. "But we didn't tell the owner about it yet."

"I'm not sure I follow," he says, uncertainly, although he damn well does, he just doesn't trust us.

"Tell you what, why don't I show you some bodywork we need doing on another project," I say and take out my phone to show him photos of the damaged Terrorbyte. "This one's legit, bought and paid for. We're coming to you first because we know you'll give us a good deal. We're friends, right?"

"Sure, okay," he reluctantly agrees. "Alright, fine. Why don't we make an appointment for me to see this truck, so I can give you a full estimate. You can show me the paperwork and we can take it from there."

"Do you have a card," I ask. Uncomfortably, he hands one to me. I take a photo of it on my phone so I can add his contact info later. It says his name is Kevin Gerhard. "Lend me a pen, will ya," I ask and write my own number and the address of the warehouse in La Mesa on the back of the card, hand it back to him. "Why don't you let me know when you can make it out?"

"Okay," he agrees, puts the card into his breast pocket and buttons it closed. "Alright, lemme take a look at your truck. I'll make sure there's no glitches or _bugs_."

"You sure you trust this guy," Soo-Jin asks me as she drives us out of the place and turns left to take us back towards her place.

"The car I bought from him was hot. Harvey has him on a rap for street racing a stolen car."

"Fair enough."

"What?"

She flicks her eyes briefly towards me, then back to the road. "Doesn't matter."

"You don't like me, do you," I ask.

She laughs. "The hell do you care what I think?" I'm not sure how to answer that, so she goes on. "You're alright. I got the wrong idea about you back on that yacht and I'm sorry."

"Do you think I'm a sl*t for sleeping with Cole?"

"Damn, woman, you need to get one thing clear in your head. You wanna sleep with somebody, or with lots of somebodies, that's your deal. Nobody else is entitled to an opinion on it, and _nobody_ gets to call you 'sl*t' unless you decide you want to call it yourself."

"But on the yacht, when you thought-"

"I only got a problem if you're using your body for business. Letting yourself be objectified."

"My Dad raised me to never let anybody do that. Not to do it to myself. He said… men say…"

"Don't let men make you ashamed for acting the same way they do," she interrupts sharply. "You have just as much right to enjoy yourself as those hypocrites. Just sucks that we have to be more careful about it, is all." Again, I don't know how to respond so we ride in silence for a while, but it's a more comfortable silence.

"Nobody's ever said it to me that way before," I venture after a while.

"Your Dad raise you himself," she asks me.

"My Mom died in labor."

She tilts her head. "Explains a few things."

"Yeah, I'm getting that impression," I say and she gives me a half grin.

A few minutes later we turn into the yard of a nice-ish apartment building off South Rockford Drive where Little Seoul, La Puerta and Vespucci overlap. "Hope you did your weights while you were working out this morning. We're here," she says.

We get out of the truck and she opens one of the two large garage doors at the foot of building manually, raises it up. There's a boring Japanese station wagon and a boring Japanese sedan in there, but then there's a gunmetal gray Karin 190z sitting low on a set of deep-dish 6-spokes, and four motorcycles.

"Let me introduce you to my babies," she says, and points each one out to me as she explains what it is. All of them are Pegassis. A green superbike is introduced as a Bati 8-something-something-R. Then there are the street-fighters, the black and green FCR-1000 she was on when I first met her and the orange Vortex. And finally there's a run-down black and red Esskey which clearly is a work in progress. She tells me it's a scrambler. That's the one she has me help her load into the bed of the pick-up. Nice as the bikes are, it's the 190z that's caught my eye.

"Oh, you like the cage, huh," she asks me, noticing. "Bet it'll whip your Elegy." I look at her, not understanding. "You not been street-racing? I'm gonna have to take you to a meet sometime."

"Sure," I say, but I'm not sure at all. She realizes and laughs, but not at me.

"You're really a fish out of water in the city, aren't you," she says.

"You mean the soulless pit of capitalism," I say, but I'm smiling as I say it. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to the city environment, but with a pang of guilt I realize I'm starting to like it.

"Nothing wrong with the pursuit of the American dollar," she smiles back. "Keep an eye on that for me a minute, I gotta go change."

When she comes back, she's carrying a pair of motocross boots and a gym bag and wearing extremely short frayed denim shorts with a torn black T-shirt emblazoned with a heavy metal reimagining of the Pegassi logo over a white vest top. She' wearing red canvas sneakers and on one leg she has a thigh-high striped sock, the other a black hold-up stocking. "You're driving" she tells me as she drops the boots and the gym bag into the bed of the truck, locks the garage door closed and climbs into the shotgun seat.

* * *

The gnarled, greasy old guys at the yard are excited but not suspicious when we roll up and Soo-Jin excitedly starts reeling off a list of parts that she's hoping to find for her bike. The boss of the place enthusiastically guides her in to look around.

Meanwhile I'm left with a couple of guys, one middle aged, the other barely out of his teens but already looking like a dirty old man. "What can we interest _you_ in today, sugar," the older one asks me.

"Oh, I'm just the driver today," I tell him, hoping that'll ward them off. It doesn't.

He steps back and casts an eye over the pick-up. "That's a pretty cool old truck," he tells me. "Ain't you been after somethin' like this, Lyle?"

"Sure," the younger guy says, but his eyes are fixed on me."

"It's okay. Not as good off-road as I hoped it'd be," I say, wondering if this might get me a shot of the two Insurgents.

"Is that right? Well, maybe we have something you can use to upgrade it with," the old guy says.

"You know," I reply, smiling as wide as I can force. "If you guys don't mind, I just might take a look?"

The older guy opens my door for me, closes it once I'm out. "Sure is a pretty dress," he comments and makes me feel filthy again just as I thought I was making some progress. "Lyle, why don't you show her around. I'll keep an eye on your stuff for ya."

Yeah, I'll bet you will. Nonetheless, Lyle moves lazily forward past me. "Follow me," he says and leads me into the yard while I try to ignore the feeling of the older guy's eyes on my butt. I really should have changed into something else when I left Cole.

"You wrench much," Lyle asks me as he leads me through the yard, not glancing back.

"A little," I say. "I used to work with my old man on his old Imponte Dukes."

He chuckles. "We got one of them in, yes'day or the day before. It was all blown up, but looked like it had been all armored for the apocalypse."

"Oh really," I say, trying to hide my sadness that the old car had wound up here. It wouldn't have been so bad if I could've salvaged any of it, but it was way too far gone.

"Yeah. Shame really," Lyle says, then stops and finally turns to face me, though he's at least making an effort not to leer at me. "Here's where we keep the offroad stuff," he says, holding up his left arm to sweep across the columns of piled-up SUV's and clutter of stripped surplus parts. "You prolly won't get much in the truck today, with your friend's bike in it, but you can put a deposit on some stuff and we'll hold it for you."

"Thanks," I say. "Mind if I dig around a little?"

"Sure. Shout me if you see anything 'n' I'll get it off for you." He doesn't move. I guess there's some safety rules he's got to pay attention to. From elsewhere in the yard I can hear Soo-Jin laugh and it sounds genuine. I need to get my act on too, so I walk on over and let my little bit of mechanical knowledge try and get me excited for any of this stuff. Think of the Elegy, and that lifts my spirits a bit. I don't have to go far before I find what I'm looking for.

"Whoah," I say, almost involuntarily. Before I can even regret it, Lyle's by my side. "What are _those_ ," I ask him.

The two vehicles sure are impressive even in shot-up form, casting a large and imposing presence. Each one is twice the size of our stolen pick-up, possibly even more than that. One of them is a simple SUV, but the other's a pick-up with an automatic cannon on top. That's the one I want, but I'll take either.

"They're cool, aren't they," Lyle agrees with a grin. "We can't touch 'em though. Feds have got some deal with 'em."

"Damn. Imagine how quick I'd get around LS with the pick-up," I smile and he laughs nervously. "Can you start 'em," I add, consciously tucking a strand of my blue hair behind my ear.

"Uh, I'm not really supposed to-"

"Bet it sounds pretty good, huh," I press.

"Um," Lyle mumbles, looking around nervously.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Soo-Jin shouts across "I bet there's plenty space on the back seat too!" She and the boss of the place appear from the far side of the Insurgents with armfuls of motorcycle parts. Looks like she's got herself a good haul.

"I was just thinking, we could get you all the way up Mount Chiliad with a ride like this," I say.

"Lyle, go get the keys. Let the ladies enjoy the rumble they make," the boss instructs. "Shame to have 'em sitting here rotting," he adds as Lyle threads his way deeper into the yard. I watch him for a while but he soon disappears.

"Get everything you need," I ask Soo-Jin.

"Almost," she smiles. And there Shirazi thought you couldn't mix business with pleasure. "Wait here, I'll be right back. Don't fire those things up without me!"

Briefly I'm left alone as she and the older guy go to dump her pieces in our truck. Checking for Lyle, I get out my phone and take a few snaps, trying to work out a clear route for driving those things out of here.

"Taking a selfie," Lyle asks, startling me.

"Sorry," I blush. "They're just so cool."

"It's okay, just don't post 'em on LifeInvader," he says. "Don't want angry Feds coming down here to p*ss and moan."

He loiters nearby me awkwardly as we wait for Soo-Jin to come back. Both the other guys are with her when she reappears. "Alright, let's hear 'em," she beams.

"Go for it Lyle," the boss says. He slinks over towards the pick-up, lazily pulls open the driver's door and hauls himself inside. A second or two later, the starter turns over, but just as lazily as Lyle. He tries it again, but it's not going to start.

"Bah," the boss curses, strides over and grabs the keys from Lyle, goes over to the other one. This one fires up first time. I notice Lyle looking a little flushed. "There you go, ladies. How'd you like how that feels?"

"It's so _cool_ ," Soo-Jin gushes with an enthusiasm that seems so naturally genuine. I'm noticing how much these older guys are leering over us and I'm starting to feel uncomfortable but I don't want to let on.

"Shame we can't just buy these," I say, and the older guys both laugh.

"Even if we could sell 'em, I doubt you ladies could afford 'em," the boss grins. "Hell, _we_ couldn't afford 'em even if we sold all the other stuff in the yard," he adds, taking the sting of offensiveness from his comment. I wonder whether he's aware of that or not? I'm idly pondering that as he turns to look at Lyle and raise an arm in the direction of the running Insurgent. Lyle obediently kills the engine and retrieves the key for his boss, and then he says to Soo-Jin "Come on, let's get some paperwork done on your parts."

* * *

She joins me in the truck maybe ten minutes later. "Yuck, let's get outta here," she says quietly. I spark up the engine and floor it but we're going the wrong way, heading past the oilfields to the wind farm. It's okay, we have time for the detour. She gets her phone out and initiates a conference call to the others.

"The keys are in a safe in the office. Kind of like a trailer cabin," she says. "And there's some angry looking dogs in there. They're chained up for now, but I bet they won't be tonight."

"Do we know anyone who can crack a safe," I ask.

"I might know somebody, but it's gonna cost us," Paige complains.

"I could ask Cole," I suggest.

"No way," Cope comes back.

"Are you telling me you don't trust my judgement, Rayhan? Or are you making judgements of your own?" Soo-Jin gives me a grin at that.

"I might be able do it, but I'll need you guys to look after me," Eliza cuts in, surprising us all. It's clear that she's forced herself to volunteer.

"Whoah, you sure? It's a big step from running ops to being in the field." That was Paige, sternly, clearly worried about more than just Eliza's safety.

"I mean, it'd help if I knew what kind of safe it was, but I have _some_ experience," Eliza comes back with, sounding less certain, like she's as surprised by what she just said as we are.

"I figured that. I'll upload you my photos of it. Contrary to popular belief, I _wasn't_ born yesterday," Soo-Jin responds.

"Alright. Well, we're just about to take off, so I'll get you as much info from the air as I can. You sure Dakota can really fly this crate?"

"No idea," I say. "I haven't seen it."

"Know what I like about this team? You really inspire confidence," Paige swipes sarcastically before hanging up on us.

* * *

When we get in to the house at Sustancia Road, Harvey's nowhere to be seen but I now have a full kitchen, dining room and living room installed. After we dropped Soo-Jin's parts off to the garage under a grimy apartment building on Vespucci Boulevard in Little Seoul called Hoard House, we went and picked up the Elegy from the Crown Jewels and found a quiet backstreet to burn the pick-up truck out.

We're joined first by Eliza who by now is looking very nervous and regretting opening her mouth. Cope arrives nearly ten minutes later, bringing a small metal case and some black combat gear and a helmet for Eliza that dwarves her. We sit in an awkward silence for nearly another half an hour while we wait for Paige and Dakota to arrive. When they do, Dakota pulls a face at me and goes to stand in the corner while Paige lays out blown-up aerial photographs and her tablet on my new dining room table. "This is what we're working with," she says. "Together with the photos you took," she nods at me. "We can see our map out of there. Remember this because it's a bit of a maze."

"What's our entry point," I ask.

"I am," Cope replies. I look at him quizzically.

"Cope, along with Eliza, are going to parachute onto the roof of the office cabin," Paige tells us.

"What? That's absurd," I explode. No wonder Eliza looks so terrified. Cope is grinning at me.

"It's okay. I've done this lots of times in the SEALS. It was that, or rappel in from a helicopter and since our only heli pilot's still in hospital…"

"What about Eliza? No offence, but you don't strike me as a HALO junkie," I tell her. Her look of fear shifts slightly to one of puzzlement, answering my rhetorical question. HALO; High Altitude, Low Opening. As in, you leave it almost insanely late before opening your chute.

"She'll be strapped to me. We've spent the afternoon doing practice," Cope says. "Once we're in, we throw laced steaks to the dogs. They eat them, they'll be out. They don't, I hit 'em with the tranq." He lays the metal case on the table and pops the latches to show us the tranquiliser gun and the half dozen darts inside.

"What about your hands?"

"I'll be fine," he says.

"Surely the Feds won't be leaving protection of the Insurgents to canines," Soo-Jin interrupts.

"You're right. There's a couple of junior agents that watch the place outside business hours, but due to the dogs they only patrol the perimeter," Paige tells us and brings up images on her tablet. "Two guys with a dog of their own, plus CCTV monitoring that feeds back to the FIB. Which one of you wants to be the plant?"

"Plant?" That's me.

"I'll be sneaking one of you inside before the place closes," Paige replies, looking a little uncomfortable. "Once the lot's closed and the aerial team's inbound, you'll come out and establish the patrol pattern and take care of the CCTV so that the remote monitor gets a nice, calm feed while we take out the guards."

" 'Come out' of where," Soo-Jin asks.

"Maybe I should show you," Paige says and we follow her outside to where her Grainger is parked at the curb. It's hooked to a trailer and on the trailer is a wrecked DeClasse Vigero.

* * *

This was a really stupid idea and guess who drew the short straw? I'm curled up in the trunk with Cope's tranquiliser – no way was I facing those dogs without having that – and a little portable computer that Paige is going to talk me through using to hack the CCTV. I've been here from just before the yard's 6pm closing time and had to await confirmation that Dakota was back at the airfield once darkness finally fell so my arms and legs are both numb, cramped and almost immediately start to _really_ hurt when I ease open the trunk lid to look out for the yard dogs. Everything seems quiet. As quietly and as gently as I can I start to climb out of the car, thanking my lucky stars they didn't load it straight into the crusher when Paige dropped it off.

I can't see the office from where I am. I can hear padding paws and breathing dogs as they pace around looking for blood. I'm going to need to silence them before they make any angry noises because that's going to alert the FIB guys for sure.

I decide to leave the trunk open in case I need to sprint back to it. I can't see any cameras from my vantage point and I'm hoping the Feds haven't hidden any fancy ones that don't look like cameras around the area. This is a really bad idea.

My black clothes hide me well in the darkness but that won't save me from the hounds who'll be coming for me fast and angry the moment they catch my scent in the wind. I wish I'd bought the laced steaks with me, but then they'd have been all over the Vigero and I'd have been dead anyway, so I'm sticking close to the piles of wrecked cars in as much darkness as I can find to hide in, carefully edging my way through the yard, sweeping the tranquiliser in all directions like my life depends on it.

A noise to the left distracts me. I swing around and spot one of the dogs trotting along. He's not caught my scent yet. I aim the tranquiliser and fire, not sure of the range on the thing. It catches him on the flank and for a minute I don't think it's worked as he carries on unperturbed, but as I follow him he falls over and starts to make a low, quiet growl as it takes effect.

This is still a stupid idea, but maybe I can make it work. I edge my way a little further through the yard, coming around a stack of junk to where the two Insurgents are still sat. No sooner do I register the sight of them than a bunch of floodlights come on, leaving no darkness for me to hide in, and then immediately I have three dogs thundering towards me barking angrily as alarm sirens blare so loud they make my brain shut off. I abandon the tranq – no time for that – and run as fast as I can back for the Vigero, yelling "abort" into my headset. A sharp pain in my leg brings me crashing to the ground and then I've got one of the dogs biting and clawing at me. I punch it as hard as I can in the side, buying me enough time to force myself back to my feet but now they're all on me as I stumble back to the wreck, fighting them off me as they clamber up my back, biting into my pants and my shirt, occasionally finding flesh and drawing blood. Now I'm blind terrified as I struggle to throw the things off me and scramble into the trunk, finally slamming it down and shutting myself into darkness, holding it closed as they struggle and growl at me from outside.

A few minutes later, a whistle draws the dogs away from me and then the trunk is pulled open and I'm roughly bundled out.

"You're under arrest," one of them snaps as I'm bent over the car and handcuffed by two guys in FIB windbreakers. "Special Agents Brock West and Collin Conner." Not juniors; these are experienced agents. I can already tell that attempting to resist arrest will go badly for me.

Neither of them says a word as they force me across the yard to the main gate. The juniors we'd been expecting are waiting there with their dog and open it so they can bundle me into a black Grainger with some noticeable added heft to it over the civilian version Paige drives. West drives. Conner gets in beside me and puts a gun to my head. "You have the right to remain silent. For your sake, I recommend you take advantage until we get you booked in."

"I want my lawyer," is all I say in response, earning a scowl and a tightening of his finger on the trigger.

* * *

The ride to their headquarters is silent and when we get there I'm thrown into an interrogation room that burns my nose with the stench of sweat and fear ill-masked beneath the stench of bleach cleaner and strip-searched at gunpoint. Two female agents this time. The one with the heat identifies herself as Special Agent Leila Moss. Skyla Vasquez demands my vest, and then my pants, searching through them and then putting them into a plastic crate for evidence. Then they have me take off my T-shirt and Vasquez winces and mutters "Jesus" at the sight of my collection of bruises, scabs and scars from the past few days. After my clothes have been locked up and Vasquez takes them away, Moss holsters her weapon and throws a folded orange jumpsuit at me to put on. West joins us when I'm dressed and I'm shackled and fixed to a heavy wooden table, forced to sit down on an uncomfortable chair. The overhead lighting is uncomfortably bright, making everyone look washed out, almost making me feel like I'm looking in at a low-res recording of a bad dream. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the one-way mirror taking up most of the left wall. The blue hair contrasts sharply against the orange jumpsuit. I almost don't recognise myself.

"Nice hair," West taunts. "Wonder if it'll look as good after 25 to life inside a prison with no hair dye?"

"You understand how this works don't you? You don't _have_ to talk to us," Moss starts.

"And, gee, I really hope you don't," West smirks.

"But you _are_ legally obliged to tell us your name and address."

I sit forwards, slowly. "You know that lawyer I have a right to?"

"Sure. The more you fail to co-operate, the better this is gonna go. For us," Moss says with a superior smirk.

Too many people have been smirking at me today. West's doing it too. "Oh, I got a _real_ hard-on already," he says.

"Thanks," I smile. "I'll be sure to note that for my sexual harassment suit. _Lawyer_."

West's still looking pleased with himself as he stands up and heads towards the door. When he opens it, a familiar face steps in and smiles at me. The leering middle-aged guy from the junk yard that had told Lyle to show me around. Only now he's cleaned up, wearing a shirt, tie and smart pants and he's wearing an FIB ID tag. He still stinks of axle grease and old engine oil though. "You've already met Special Agent Turner," West tells me.

Moss pulls her chair closer to me and leans into my personal space. "The sad thing is, you'd almost gotten away with it. Until you went back for your Insurgents, we had no suspects."

"Think you can identify your accomplice? It might help your case if we can agree a plea bargain tonight," West says.

"I get it," I say, nodding slowly. To Moss, I say "you must be Bad Cop." That makes all three of 'em laugh until I turn to West and finish my sentence. "And you must be _Really_ Bad At His Job Cop."

Only Turner still looks amused, making a mocking "ouch" while his colleagues' demeanours turn sour.

"Think comedy's going to help you in the clink," West growls. "They'll beat your teeth out. The screws will be getting _really_ friendly with you."

"Special Agent West, that's the second sexually oriented threat you've made tonight," I point out. Messing with them like this might be bringing me close to a beating, but I'm deflecting from what they're really trying to press. They want me to ask what they've arrested me for and what they're trying to pin on me. I'm guessing they've been given the dead end Humane Labs investigation and they're getting desperate to prove themselves, get a result, move on to some _real_ work. The less I allow them to let slip, the more deniability I have. And also West is a dangerous misogynist with a badge. If I can catch him out and flag him up to prevent him snapping with some other woman less equipped to deal with him, it's worth the sacrifice. My Dad always stressed not all monsters are on the _wrong_ side of the law.

"I liked your Asian friend," Turner starts with. "What's her name?"

"More to the point," Moss interrupts, shooting him an angry glance. "What's yours? Legal requirement, you're smart, you should know that." The way she says "smart" makes it clear she means "smart-a$$" but, honestly, I don't know if this woman's bulls*****g me or not.

"I'll tell you when my lawyer's here," I stress. "Until then, I'm invoking my right to silence, unless you want to threaten me again?"

A quiet falls in the room, broken only by the noise of a helicopter somewhere outside. A building this tall, I guess they're used to it. West storms out. Moss glares at me for a while before following reluctantly. I get a smile from Turner who's seemingly making himself comfortable on a chair in the corner of the room, just out of view of whoever's behind the one-way mirror. It wouldn't surprise me if he, West and the other guy that had arrested me, Conner, had been watching back there while I was strip-searched.

"You ain't Khangphae," Turner starts monologuing. "Your friend, maybe, but you're too cracker for them to work with you and anyway, the raids were organised. Professional jobs, not your common-or-garden two-bit hold-ups. Too much finesse to be the Koreans, or the Triads, or the Mexis. You've done your prep, you were ready for the dogs with your tranquiliser. High-grade body armour, better than soldiers get. No, you're with one of the _professional_ outfits. I bet it'll be _real_ exciting to know what else you've been into?"

"Do I have a Constitutional right to ask _you_ to be silent," I ask.

He chuckles at that, raises his voice slightly to compensate for the noise of the helicopter which has been gradually getting louder and now must be right over us. "Doesn't really matter what you say or don't say. It was clear you and your accomplice today had a bead on the two Insurgents. Did you know your phone fried itself before we got it from here to the lab? Of course you did. Nah, you don't gotta say anything, you're our girl."

He's interrupted from a further spillage of verbal diarrhoea by a knock on the door. Skyla Vasquez leads a tall woman with a severe brunette bob and a sharp skirt suit into the interrogation room and announces to Turner "her lawyer's here."

"That was fast," Turner complains, clearly as surprised as I am, and gets up slowly. Either he's out of shape or he hates having to allow me time in private with my legal counsel, but he takes his sweet time walking out of the room.

"I'm Kamora Nunez," the woman tells me, sitting down across from me and setting a briefcase on the table.

"Did the Feds appoint you for me," I ask.

"No. _Hell_ no," she grimaces. "I'm here on behalf of your employer," she continues, opening the briefcase and setting down a notepad onto the table. The noise of the helicopter is giving me a headache and I'm entirely too lacking in sleep and patience, but something about this woman puts me on alert.

The pen she takes out catches my eye. It looks to be crafted from a heavy duty metal, looks like shiny aluminum. A little bit _too_ heavy duty for a lawyer. "Did you give them your name yet? An address? Anything," she asks.

"No," I admit.

"Did they fingerprint you? Swab you?"

I shake my head, watching as she turns the pen around in her hands. You could easily mistake this for simple fidgeting, but I've got a bad feeling that I already know what's going on.

"Good. Your phone has already taken care of itself. We'll get your possessions before they can be processed. Just one loose end left to tie up."

She stands and steps towards me with the pen clutched in her right hand. I reel back, but I can't move; I'm still fixed to the table. "You're gonna kill me?"

"What did you expect," she frowns, straightening up a little in surprise, giving me a view of the needle sticking up out of the disassembled pen. So now I know what I'm up against. She comes for me again and I stand, as fast and as far as the chains holding me to the table allow me and headbutt her as hard as I can.

She falls back, clutching her head and crying out in pain. I've not caught her right and my own head is reeling from the impact, but I know she's dropped the syringe. I'm aware of the door opening and watch helplessly as Moss hurries in, aware that something's going down. She's not prepared for Nunez to have pulled a Mk2 Shrewsbury SNS pistol from a thigh holster under her skirt and takes a .45 in the centre of the forehead. Turner's followed her in. He starts to draw his own weapon drawn but the shock of seeing his Special Agent In Charge murdered on FIB premises has blindsided him so he's too slow in aiming it at Nunez. A bullet smashes through the one-way glass smashes into his forehead and then there's an exchange of gunfire back there. Meanwhile, Nunez has stooped to retrieve the syringe and is just standing up, extending her weapon towards me. I'm struggling against my bonds, but the table isn't just heavy, it's fixed to the floor. I can collapse off the chair, but I'm a sitting duck. That's when the lights go out.

The confusion gives me enough distraction to bring her crashing down onto her a$$, sweeping her legs from under her with both my own. If not for the black patent high heels she was wearing, she might have countered my move, but as it is she stumbles haphazardly and twists her ankle. The gun clatters away across the floor.

Gunfire rings out all around me and yet again I'm back in a s***hole backalley in Iraq. There's shouting too, but I can't make out the voices. Dim emergency lighting kicked in, probably only a split second after the main lights went dark but, honestly, it may as well have been a lifetime.

More shots come from behind the one way glass, impacting the table and the chair as I struggle to shelter under it. Nunez is back on her feet and she's got her gun again. Conner and West enter thee room, crouched low, guns ready. Nunez aims at them and Conner kills her while West shoots out the one way glass. There's a man back there wearing the uniform of the building's security guards, along with a couple of dead Feds, and he shrinks into cover but then Skyla Vasquez kicks the door to the back room open and fills him with three shots of her own. After checking he's neutralised, she climbs through the opening to join us in the interrogation room.

"A$$holes on the _inside_ coming to kill you," West complains as he fumbles his keys in the lock binding my shackles to the table. "What the _hell_ are you into lady?"

I don't get to respond. Somebody puts a bullet through the back of his head and I'm showered with his blood. I cry out and fall away. Vasquez and Conner both retaliate, but not before Conner's shot in the leg.

Vasquez helps him to the floor and crouches by him to check his wound. Meanwhile, gunfire continues to ring out from elsewhere around the building and I can _still_ hear that damn helicopter.

"Hey," I yell, rattling my chains on the table. "Get me out of here, I can help."

"Stay down," Vasquez yells. More gunfire from the corridor outside, and then we're joined by four N.O.O.S.E agents in full combat gear, helmets and balaclavas. One of them demands to see credentials, only lowering his weapon once Vasquez has shown them.

Two of them haul Conner to his feet and support him. Finally Vasquez releases me, but shoves me into a crouch by the scruff of my neck, gun in her right hand ready to kill anyone that comes for us, but also ready to kill me too if I try anything.

We move out into the corridor which is hazy with GSR and the aftermath of smoke grenades. Still more gunfire sounds elsewhere around the building as we join another group of N.O.O.S.E agents and begin to make our way to the elevators, but then once again I'm splattered in hot blood. Our party stops and I'm pushed to the floor as the NO.O.S.E. guards take on two janitors clutching submachineguns. One agent's already dead and as the gunfight goes on overhead, Collins drops to the ground to my left. Vasquez's scream seems ethereal and miles away. Once again Iraq comes back to haunt me.

I'm partially shaken from the reverie as two of the N.O.O.S.E agents pull me up by my arms and sprint me away while the rest of the team continue to battle the two janitors.

"Stay low," one of them instructs, surprising me initially with a female voice. It's another second or so before I realise it's Soo-Jin.

"Hope we didn't keep you waiting," the other masked figure says and I realise it's Cope. "Pilot says he's had to bug out so it's onto plan B," he tells us as, finally, the noise of the helicopter begins to recede.

I'm going to ask what Plan B is, but I hear Vasquez calling out from behind us – she's realised I'm on the move and now she's breaking away from the N.O.O.S.E team as they're engaged by yet more of the corrupt security personnel, Feds and whoever else is implanted in the building on the take from SecuroServ.

Cope barges open an emergency door and leads us up – _up_! We get to the top of the first flight when Vasquez bursts through the door below us, still on our tail.

"Don't kill her," I plead as Soo-Jin aims back at her and unleashes a suppressing burst of fire. Vasquez shrinks back into cover, but I already know she's not just gonna leave it.

Up ahead we're cut off by a trio of guys in blue FIB windbreakers that aim weapons at us and order us to freeze. Soo-Jin and Cope take point to open fire, but they're aiming to pin them down rather than incur casualties. The Feds pop a few shots in our vague direction as they fall away into cover, but nothing to worry about, and we continue our ascent.

"Where are we going," I ask as we continue to climb, the crouch hurting my back. I wish I could get my hands on any kind of weapon and fight back.

"Fiftieth floor," Cope calls back. "They've not fixed it yet from when it was hit last year. That's our exit."

Soo-Jin's bringing up the rear, still having to lay down suppressing fire as Vasquez and the trio of Feds carefully pursue us. We're only a couple of floors under where we need to be. Cope's watching ahead of us, taking point, but we don't run into any more trouble, at least not until we get to the fiftieth and encounter a trio of guys up there. They don't try to resist against the superior firepower of Soo-Jin and Cope, so I don't worry too much about the,.

What I do worry about is the wild shot that comes in my direction from a guy in janitor's uniform that comes out behind us while they're distracted. The first shot misses, but he's gonna get me with the next one!

Cope and Soo-Jin are still reacting to the surprise attack. I'm sure this is it; I'm going to die. Then Vasquez tackles him to the ground and two of the other Feds pile on to make sure he's secured. She's heading up towards me when three shots ring out. The third Fed has killed his colleagues, and the janitor, and now he's aiming at Vasquez!

I launch myself down the steps towards him. He realises I'm coming at him and swings his weapon, but I'm falling too fast and I crush him beneath me. When I roll off him, I go for his fallen weapon and bring it up aiming at him. Vasquez also has her weapon trained on him, rather than on me. This is good, but I can see in her expression the conflict going on in her mind.

"What the Hell is going on," she demands.

"That's what we've been trying to figure out," I admit. "Looks like you've got the same problems with moles that we have."

"Who _are_ you?"

"I can't tell you," I say. "Not right now."

"We're gonna have to find you," Vasquez says weakly. "We can't just let this lie."

"You've got him for now," I tell her.

"Yep. I'm not letting a _traitor_ get off. That's the only reason I'm having to let you go. But we're gonna find you," she says again.

"I'll find _you_ , Agent Vasquez," I promise as I walk my way back upstairs, but her warning has given me a cold chill that I know is gonna stay with me for a while. But for now, we just have to concentrate on what we're doing.

Cope and Soo-Jin are holding the guards at gunpoint. When I join them, Soo-Jin gives one of the guys' feet a gentle kick. "Alright, get outta here. All of you."

"I think I heard about this," I say to Cope. "Are we going to rappel down?"

"Not exactly," he says. "I was all ready for my skydive. Guess I'm gonna have to settle for a base jump."

* * *

This is where terror meets exhilaration; I can barely breathe, much less understand what Cope is yelling as we jump from the open hole and Downtown Los Santos rushes to greet me at a terrifying rate. Then Cope deploys our chute and I feel the jerk as our rate is suddenly massively decreased.

"Knees UP," Cope yells and I obediently, but with difficulty, pull them as far up to my chest as we can.

There's a strange peacefulness as we drift across the city, over the La Puerta freeway and Calais Avenue before touching down on the top level of the Caesar's Auto Parking lot in between Vespucci and San Andreas Avenue. The landing is heavier than I was expecting, but Cope's still pulling back so we come down onto his behind. Soo-Jin lands a couple of seconds later ten or fifteen feet away and says into her radio "we're down, top of Caesar's lot."

Cope helps me unstrap myself from him and then asks me to help him stow his chute. I notice as I start to fold it up that he's holding his hands to his chest. "You okay there?"

"Fine," he grimaces. "Let's just get this done, before they come after us."

We work quickly to stuff it back into his bag and we're just getting done when Paige's Grainger pulls up and all of us pile in.

"Hey," she greets.

"Don't f*****g 'hey' me," I snap. "Was that you setting me up or was it just a _serious_ f*****g black hole in your intel?"

"Hang on, it was Paige that organised your extraction," Cope argues. He's still nursing his hands, and I think one of 'em's bleeding again.

"Extraction or execution," I demand, turning on him now.

"That was SecuroServ," he snaps back. "Standard protocol if they register you as being arrested by the Feds. Paige was the one who figured out how to get us in to get you. She got us the N.O.O.S.E. uniforms and the helicopter."

"I'm sorry," Paige's voice cuts through, stopping me in my tracks from arguing further. It's painfully clear that saying that was as difficult for her as it had been for me with Inquisitor. "I didn't know the Feds would still be actually _watching_ the Insurgents."

"Insurgent," Harvey's voice comes through the car's speaker system, and I realise Paige has us connected via her cellphone. "If you needed one of those, why didn't you tell me? I know where there's one abandoned."

" _You_ can get us an Insurgent," Paige asks, her voice conveying the full weight of her incredulity.

"I mean," he says and now sounds slightly embarrassed. "I've not been back in a while, but the crew that were using it aren't around anymore."

"Oh, s***, you mean," Paige starts.

"Yep. The _Diamond Rain_ crew. They had it stashed over at Catfish View."

"Where," I ask, confused.

"I know it. El Gordo region," Cope says. Paige nods. She's already got the Grainger headed that way.

"That Fed you were making friendly with," Soo-Jin says. "She gonna be a problem?"

"She could be an asset," I say. "She's just figured out there's a bunch of compromised people all throughout her organisation."

"She's onto SecuroServ? You should've neutralised her," Paige complains.

"Hey, she kept me alive," I argue in Vasquez's defence.

"Only because you're a suspect," Paige argues back. "If the Feds uncover their moles, they could be onto your entire organisation and then _all_ of you are greenlit. You'll have heat on you from _both_ sides."

We drive for a while in uneasy silence. Eventually she pounds her steering wheel in angry frustration and curses " _f***_!"

* * *

Harvey's waiting for us at Catfish View in his Glendale. I get the feeling as I climb out of the Grainger that he half wants to embrace me in relief but he's holding back. "They treat you okay in there," he asks me instead.

"Until my lawyer tried to kill me," I shrug.

He's not sure how to respond to that so he turns away and gets down to business instead. "The Insurgent's still there. It hasn't been started in a while though." He leads us down to the last house at the waterside, abandoned and bullet-riddled. Old crime scene tape is still hanging on in places across the door frame.

Opposite the house is an old wooden lean-to, covered up by some broken boat junk. Harvey pulls some of the crap aside. Inside is a large vehicle covered by a tarpaulin. Harvey pulls it away and there's the Insurgent. It's not got a mounted weapon like the one I wanted at the salvage yard, but Paige looks suitably impressed at it while Cope helps Soo-Jin get the hood open and climbs into the drivers' seat.

"Hey, yo, see if you can find some tools around somewhere," Soo-Jin calls from inside the engine bay.

I head towards the house and pull away the crime scene tape. Harvey cautiously watches the other two houses, but they're both silent, lights out. The middle one has a realtor's sign, but it looks like it's been on the market a while and the realtor has given up on it.

My nose is hit first by the stench of old death and when I turn on the lights I can see dried blood and bullet marks from whatever went down here, but the house has been emptied by whoever investigated the aftermath. I can't stand to be in there too long; the scent is triggering the old memories that neither Dakota or I have gotten around to dealing with yet. I can't talk so I simply shake my head at Harvey. He busts open the door to the middle house and emerges with a tool box. Soo-Jin frowns at it when he sets it down and opens it for her, but it's gotta be better than nothing.

Paige comes and stands by us. I can feel her unease radiating from her, and so can Harvey who offers her his jacket.

"Things just got massively more complicated," she sighs.

"They did. I'm not comfortable getting a rap for killing Feds though," I admit.

"No," she agrees. "No, that will put an even bigger crosshair on you. On all of us."

"Thanks for getting me out," I say. "Cope said you got the heli?"

"Yeah. A contact I have from working with Lester," she says. I can feel something else is bugging her, but I don't get to ask because there's a loud roar as Soo-Jin and Cope get the Insurgent running. All of our moods lift slightly.

Finally something's going our way.

The good feeling doesn't get us far; we're trundling up the drive to the main road when Inquisitor's red Dominator comes down to head us off. There's a black Bravado Buffalo behind it. Inquisitor gets out of his car. Behind him, a guy in a denim Sherpa jacket gets out of the driver's side, crosses around the car and holds the passenger door of the Buffalo for a woman in a black pant suit with long black hair, and the trio approach us where we're sat watching them from inside the Insurgent.

Nobody needs to say anything. I touch Cope's shoulder and get out. Inquisitor has a face like thunder.

"I've had to call in a serious favour to settle things down with the FIB," he growls at me as I approach. "Smoothing your extraction over with SecuroServ is going to take another one."

"I wouldn't have told them anything, even if I could," I snap back at him. "If it's standard protocol, why didn't you just leave them to it?"

His eyes darken and his jaw clenches. "Get in the f*****g car," he orders firmly, slowly, teeth gritted. I can feel the anger coming from him. I'm trying to refuse to be scared, but I feel stupid and I do owe him _big_ time, so I shut up and let them lead me to the Buffalo.

"That's a nice Insurgent you've got," denim Sherpa says as he holds the door open. "Maybe you and I could have a talk about what you're planning to do with that." I ignore him and climb inside. Inquisitor gets in next to me, without denim Sherpa's help, because he's too busy holding the door for the woman who gets into the shotgun seat.

"Your days as a SecuroServ employee are over. Nothing I can do about that," he says after a while of sitting in uncomfortable silence. He's still p*ssed, but he's cooling off a little.

"What about," I start.

"Make your million. You can still become a VIP. Do that, and keep your nose clean, and six months to a year you might even be able to expunge this calamitous f*** up."

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, hating how much my eyes burn right now, how stupid and useless I feel.

He turns to look at me now so I can get the full weight of the seriousness in his warning. "I _cannot_ help you again."

Slowly I nod my understanding. Very quickly my feelings of humiliation start giving way to anger. Meanwhile Inquisitor casts a glance in the woman's direction. She's kneeling on the seat, looking back at us.

"You can call me Lane Aguirre," she tells me. "We told the Feds you were working on a little molehunt we've got underway. So now, we're gonna need you to actually _help_ us with that molehunt."

"I don't understand," I say, understanding probably more than I want to; she's not admitting it, but she's IAA and now she's got her claws into me and she's gonna make it very difficult for me to refuse.

"About a year or so back, we got wind that a local Pharmaceutical company that had just come under ownership of Merryweather CEO Donald Percival was working on a dangerous little neuro-toxin," she says, and I see her adjusting her position. "On the fear that somebody might get hold of this toxin, we arranged to have the recipe for it removed from their servers and transferred to ours. To protect American citizens. The problem is, we weren't the only ones to go after it; somebody else did to. Somebody from within the FIB."

"Wait, two government agencies rip off this toxin, and you're both stuck investigating each other?"

Aguirre grins at me. "That's about the size of it."

"I'm not sure what you think I'm gonna be able to help you with. I'm not an investigator."

"No, but you _are_ a soldier. And what's more, we can disavow and deny your actions at any time."

"So I'm expendable."

"That's about the size of it," she says again, sitting back. "Look, this is all just part of the political game we play with the FIB. We're not asking you to identify the _actual_ thief any more than they want to. It's all about points and funding. There may come a time when we _need_ somebody in the FIB to be our suspect, and then we'll need plausible deniability in making that somebody our suspect. Stay out of trouble until we call, but when we call, be ready to do what we say. _Whatever_ we say."

Denim Sherpa opens my door. My queue to get gone. I climb out and make my way to the Insurgent where Cope and Soo-Jin have been watching anxiously. Once I'm back inside, we watch Inquisitor stroll to his Dominator and then the two cars back up sowe can roll out onto the road. Over the sea, I spot a black helicopter turning off. Aguirre was _definitely_ IAA, which makes me wonder what the Hell Inquisitor is _really_ into.


	9. Chapter 9

We dropped the Insurgent at the warehouse in La Mesa. The sun was coming back up as we rolled into the warehouse and there was a noticeable increase in activity all across the street when we came back out. We decided to head over to Casey's diner for breakfast before heading our separate ways and sat amongst a lot of grizzled guys in dirty overalls and high-visibility jackets. The smell of dirt and oil was only just drowned out by the smell of frying grease from the kitchen and we were served by the waitress I'd left holding her colleague's gunshot wound when Macfarland's guy Eddie Ross had tried to kill me in here a few nights ago. If she recognised me, she didn't make any sign of it, but it got me feeling bad enough that I couldn't finish my plate. I made a note to check on news reports later, see if the older waitress made it.

Cope drives me back to Sustancia Road so I can get my Elegy, but after being arrested, I'm not staying at my home address. Another hour or so later, I'm back at the Crown Jewels Motel. The desk clerk frowns that it's a bit early for check-ins, but I make it worth his while with a couple of bills from my dwindling reserves of cash.

I try to sleep but I'm hit with the weight of everything from the past week. Images, some accurate, some distorted, play through my mind at varying speeds and volumes, all of it set against the backdrop of Kaeden Rune's death in Iraq. Shirazi's car exploding. Cultists wanting to drink my blood or use it for the dying old f*** in the back room of the trailer. Henry Wood, dead in Jefferies' office. The waitress bleeding out in the diner. Even the way I found my Dad, and the s*** in his letter. All the what-ifs and worst case scenarios.

It's a blessed relief when the phone wakes me up. Paige gave it to me since I'm not going to get another one from SecuroServ.

"Please tell me it wasn't you." It's Cole, and his voice is tight. He's angry and holding it back.

"What's happened," I ask. No response. "Cole, what's happened," I demand.

He sighs. A few moments pass and then he says "meet me at Little Bighorn Avenue." Then he hangs up.

Being as he's not given me a time limit, I shower first, taking my time to try and wash away the nausea I'm feeling from my attempts at sleep. It doesn't work. The pool is inviting in the late morning sun as I emerge from the room.

Maybe I'm gonna have to get one of those bikini things.

* * *

Little Bighorn Avenue is on the border of where South Los Santos meets East Los Santos. It's a fairly long street, but the police tape lets me know when I'm where I'm supposed to be.

Cole surprises me stepping out of an old DeClasse Vamos. It's a little beaten-up, but that gives it a rough and ready sort of cool vibe. "Thanks for coming," he grimaces.

"Thanks nothin', cracka," the Ballas gangbanger I'd met at Tequi-la-la growls, getting out of an SUV on ridiculously oversized chrome wheels with spinners. "This b!tch jus' here to check what we know about the suits did this."

"What happened," I ask Cole.

He waves a hand across the scene. Crime scene techs have cleaned up what's important and just left their mess behind. "Somebody hit a shipment of product that the Ballas were moving. Killed twelve of their crew and stole the truck. Ballas gave chase, but they lost 'em in the desert."

"What was the product," I ask.

"None of your damn bidness, ho," the Balla explodes. Cole shoots him a look, but the Balla isn't backing down. "What, white boy, think you gotta problem with the way I talk to yo b!tch's a$$?"

"This wasn't us," I interrupt. "Not my crew, at least. Anybody got a line on what the cops found?"

Balla gives me an angry glare in response. Cole shrugs. "No, we don't have that kind of pull."

I take out my phone and unlock it, thumb an icon that Paige has put on there. There's a long list of text links. I find one that says LSPD and click it and the phone starts playing me scanner chatter while further text links start scrolling down the phone's screen. After a few seconds, I realise they're ordered by date and time, scroll through to find everything from last night onward until I find the one I need.

"Alright, twelve victims confirmed," I read. "Ballistics reports high-calibre gunshots from two weapons, 5.56 and 7.62. Forensics are ongoing. No word on ID." I back out and scroll further. "Nothing on any truck getting stopped."

"Nuthin', nuthin', nuthin'," Balla complains. "All I'm hearing from you, white b!tch."

"Hey, come on! She's trying," Cole argues. "Cops have the bullets from the guns they used, if someone uses them on another job, they'll be flagged, right? You wouldn't have had that if she weren't here."

Balla tries to hold his scowl a while longer, but eventually even he has to concede the point. "A'ight. I'm still not sold on it weren't no suits though."

"I'll see what I can find out," I say. Balla nods, then gets in his SUV and drives away.

"I'm sorry, he's an a$$hole," Cole says when we're alone.

"It's okay. Somebody killed his people. Is this their turf?"

"They _think_ it is but honestly, it's quite hot right now." He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry I had to ask if it was you."

"It's okay, I get it," I assure him, running my fingers over the hood of his car. "Nice cage."

He smiles and gives a short laugh at my use of the slang. I'd picked it up from Soo-Jin yesterday. "Thanks. Maybe you and I could go for a little ride later on?"

"Maybe," I say and lean in to give him a quick kiss. "I hope so. I'll call you."

His smile widens in surprise. "Winter Coleman, am I to take it you're now my girl?"

"No," I say. "You're _my_ boy."

"Even better."

* * *

I'm driving back to the Crown Jewels when Eliza calls. "Would you like to join us for lunch at The Venetian on Vespucci Beach?"

"Who's 'us'," I ask her.

"Me, Dakota and Cope."

"Sure. I'll be there in ten."

She laughs. "In LS traffic? More like thirty."

They're sat at a table inside the hotel's restaurant when I walk in. It's an upmarket place right out on the beachfront and I'm worried that I might be a little underdressed as I see what the others are wearing, despite the intense heat outside.

"Nice pins, Sergeant Coleman," Dakota teases as I approach. I'm wearing the short olive cargo shorts and black vest top that I'd bought with him the other day, plus the loose combat boots. I've got the camouflage canvas jacket under my arm too, but it's far too hot to wear it. Eliza has smart but comfortable-fitting gray pants and a floaty white blouse on. Dakota has a very pretty burgundy dress and high-heeled gray ankle boots.

"Damn, now I wish I'd worn cargo shorts," Cope complains, wearing an off-white linen suit with white tennis shoes and a very pale blue shirt with the top three buttons undone. I definitely feel like I'm letting the side down, but then I happen to notice the rest of the diners in here and our whole table sticks out like a sore thumb.

I've barely touched down in the seat Cope pulls out for me when a waitress appears and asks me what I'd like to drink. I ask for water and she asks me if I want still or sparkling. I opt for the latter and she hands me a menu before disappearing.

"How do you like my hotel," Eliza asks.

"This is where you're living," I ask, surprised that she'd be able to afford even a night in a place like this.

"I only stick with SecuroServ because of the perks," she explains. "Even before I started college, I knew my career prospects wouldn't be great under normal circumstances, however well I did. Wages have stagnated, particularly for my generation, even since _before_ the financial crisis. SecuroServ offered me a shot of something better. Three hundred a day, plus a bonus on every successful sale."

"Jesus!"

"Yeah. If not for that, I'd have never survived a week with Jefferies."

"How come Soo-Jin's not with us," I ask. After yesterday, I find myself warming to her.

"I asked her," Eliza replies. "She said she'd got something else she wanted to do while she had some downtime."

"Probably working on one of her bikes," Cope says. "She _loves_ those things."

"I saw them yesterday," I say. "She got a bunch of parts from the salvage yard for one of 'em."

Cope laughs. "There you go. She'll be busy putting them on." I notice he's got fresh bandages on his hands, but I decide not to linger on it.

I open the menu to scan what's available and nearly swallow my own heart. The prices are eye-watering, especially in view of how low on funds I'm running since investing nearly everything into the Terrorbyte.

"It's on _me_ ," Eliza insists, and leans forward to speak to Cope and I more quietly. "I'm still getting paid, I don't think either of you two are at the moment."

"I'll split it with you," Dakota says to her as she sits back and she smiles at him.

"You two seem to be getting along," I comment, unable to stop my own smile spreading on my face. Both of them beam at me. It makes me happy to see how comfortable they've quickly gotten with each other.

The waitress returns with my drink and asks us if we're ready to order. In gratitude to my friends, I order one of the cheapest things on the menu, a rump steak sandwich. Cope goes for shrimp and fries which is on a par while Dakota and Eliza go overboard with an extravagant main each, another one to share, starters "to come at the same time" and multiple sides.

When she's gone, Eliza leans in and lays her tablet on the table. "These are the details I've found on Special Agent Vasquez. Seems like a good cop."

"She does. Shame about the team she was assigned to," I say, reading details of her name, address and career highlights. She's only five years in, typically over-achieved at the academy and got pigeonholed into an under-appreciated position in the field. Despite this, she's earned a solid arrest and conviction record, easily outperforming her team. I didn't doubt her threat that she'd find me, and now I'm feeling that hard lump in my chest again despite the IAA woman, Aguirre, claiming she'd smoothed things over.

"How are we gonna play it," Cope asks, sitting back with one arm draped over the back of his seat.

"Like I said, I think she could be an asset. It'd be nice if we could think of a way to be mutually beneficial to each other. Especially in view of what we agreed the other night."

The other night. The funeral pyre at my Dad's place, where we'd agreed we were gonna tackle all the s*** in this city. It seems such a long time ago now, the task even more of an uphill struggle.

"Weird to think of us as good guys," Dakota says thoughtfully.

"We still have loose ends of our own to tie up. I can see how Agent Sanchez could help us with that, if we can strike the right relationship," Cope admits.

"Speaking of loose ends, I saw Paxton this morning," I say and Dakota laughs.

"That's a _very_ loose end," he teases.

I pull a face at him and continue. "Somebody hit a Ballas shipment last night. Assault calibre firepower. They suspect us, or at least another SecuroServ crew."

"A shipment of what," Cope asks.

"I don't know. They wouldn't say," I admit.

"Alright, I'll see what I can find out," Eliza says, sliding her tablet back to herself.

"You know, we never _did_ get around to visiting Macfarland," Cope says.

Our food arrives and it's so good it could easily get addictive if we could ever afford it again. Eliza and Dakota are generous in sharing their over-abundance of food so Cope and I are both uncomfortably full while they're considering the dessert menu afterwards. She orders an ice cream sundae and Dakota goes for cherry pie while Cope and I just order coffees, and then Eliza slips off to the ladies'.

"I'll be back," Cope adds after she's gone.

"Want me to come hold it for you," Dakota teases.

Cope laughs. "I think I can manage, thanks."

"It's nice to see you two smiling," I tell Dakota now that we're alone.

"She's a sweet girl," he tells me. "Appreciates simple things. Accepts people for how they are. She's just easy to get on with. And she loves shopping as much as I do."

"I bet that takes some doing," I tease and he laughs at me.

Eliza and Cope return and we enjoy sharing the end of our meal together, laughing, drawing glares from the rest of the customers in the place. Acting like normal people. All too quickly our plates are cleared and our cups are emptied. Time to get back to work.

* * *

I park the Elegy at the curb a block away and ride shotgun with Cope to Macfarland's office in the Arcadius Business Centre between Downtown and Pillbox Hill. He parks the Retinue in the underground parking lot and we ride the elevator up to the 32nd floor. We'd not called ahead, but Macfarland's assistant recognises Cope on sight from his reception desk and his face immediately falls while he calls for security.

Two burly meatheads step forwards to block our path. "Turn back around," one of them grunts.

Both of us hold up our hands in surrender. "We're not here for trouble," Cope says.

"You got it anyways," meathead #2 threatens.

I seek out the assistant to make eye contact. "We just wanna talk to your boss. Some things don't add up." He looks at me, unsure how to reply. "We think he might be getting screwed over the same way we are," I add.

Meathead #1 turns to the assistant for clarification of instructions.

"Stay here," the assistant stammers. "I'll run it by the boss."

We stand under the glare of the Meatheads stonewalling us for a couple of minutes before the assistant returns, Macfarland following behind him. He's short, maybe five seven, balding but with his hair shaved short to compensate and with a well-groomed soul patch. He's got a bit of a paunch, but he could easily sort that with a month or so of exercise and his suit's a little crumpled like he's been wearing it for a couple days straight without sleep.

"Would you pat him down," he asks Meathead #2, pointing towards Cope, then turns his head in my direction. "Sorry Miss, but would you mind just lifting your shirt and turning round? I just wanna make sure neither of you are armed." It's a fair request, so I raise the tank top to just under my chest and turn slowly while Cope similarly makes no fuss about the physical search. When Meathead #2 grunts approval, Macfarland says "thanks. Sorry, but I've got to be sure, you know?"

He invites us to follow him to his desk, at the rear of the office. He's got a lounge off to his right, board table to his left while his desk is against a solid black mahogany panel in between full-length windows that offer views of La Puerta and Little Seoul.

"Looks like you got a half decent team put together quickly," Cope comments as we sit down opposite him.

"They offered me you two once Jefferies was confirmed dead. No offence, but I declined," Macfarland responds, fiddling with the lock on a desk drawer. Finally he gets it open and lays a double-action revolver on the table. Still doesn't trust us. "So I know you, Rayhan Cope, but who's this," he adds, turning in my direction.

"Winter Coleman," I tell him. No point being difficult, he can probably find out for himself in an instant.

"And where did you come from, Winter Coleman?"

"The United States Army," I reply firmly.

Macfarland's nodding slowly. "Just got out? Sorry to be so direct, but everything seemed to be ticking along just fine until you joined Jefferies' team."

Cope can probably sense that his suggestion has got my back up and he sits up in his chair, making Macfarland twitch. "Actually, we were having a _serious_ Lost MC problem. And a few other organisations besides. We'd been having difficulties for _weeks_ before Coleman joined us. You remember what happened to Cass Melendez?"

"I do. A shame. I'd have liked to have had _that_ chica on my crew." He relaxes a little in his chair. "Alright. So my assistant says you think someone _else_ is screwing me over?"

"We do," I say. "After what went down, we were told Stamp was our mole, but she didn't leak any details of the plane cargo-"

"Because that was _my_ cargo," Macfarland interrupts. "Jefferies ripped that off from _me_. That's why you a$$holes had to shoot it down-"

"Wait a minute, _we_ didn't shoot that down," Cope argues. "That was _your_ crew."

"Oh, really," Macfarland sneers. "Tell me, Rayhan Cope, after my guys _supposedly_ shot the plane down, did any of my them turn on _you_ with a f*****g bazooka? It would have made it easier to take you out."

Cope and I exchange a glance. Macfarland has a point. "So if _you_ didn't shoot it down, and _we_ didn't shoot it down," I start.

"Maybe it wasn't any of you, maybe Jefferies had another guy you didn't know about. But _I_ bought that cargo direct from SecuroServ. You were the ones that came for it and you _butchered_ my guys. Didn't _need_ no bazooka, you carved through 'em _easy_." He leans forward on his desk, rests his elbows on the top and massages his temples. "I _loved_ my guys. They were like family."

"Maybe there's a bug in your system," I suggest. "If we could have Eliza talk with your assistant-"

"There's no bugs in my system," Macfarland says firmly and now he gets a hold of the revolver. "I've read Eliza's file. She's not a patch on Damon. If someone was hacking my terminal, he'd know about it."

"Mr Macfarland," Cope tries, but the meeting's already over.

"Maybe your boss wasn't screwing me over. I doubt it, but, alright, maybe. It's in the hands of SecuroServ," Macfarland tells us. "And so will you be if you come in here again, trying to strongarm me. Assuming you make it out. _Pitts_ ," he yells and swiftly his assistant, Damon, appears from behind us.

"Sir?"

"See these two out."

* * *

Meathead #2 rides down in the elevator with us. When we get to the bottom we spend a good five minutes making sure Cope's Retinue isn't rigged before we drive out. Immediately when we get out into open air, Cope's cellphone rings. "Put her on," I hear the gruff tone of Inquisitor demand, and Cope thumbs the speaker icon.

"I'm here," I say.

"Do you want to tell me what the Hell you're doing visiting Ant Macfarland," he demands.

"You made it clear I don't work for you anymore so what the Hell do you care?"

"Damn it, Sergeant Coleman! Things are already unsettled enough. I'd have thought you'd learned something by now but you keep going kicking nests. You're gonna get us all stung!"

"Hey, Inquisitor," I ask.

"What," he storms and I press the button to terminate the call. He tries to get us again and we let it ring out twice, but our moods are both already soured.

We're checking nobody's messed with my Elegy when Soo-Jin calls Cope and tells us Paige has requested we join her in La Mesa, but asks if we can pick her up from her place on Vespucci Boulevard because she's not got the Esskey running yet. I tell Cope that I'll get her so he tells me he'll meet me there and we split up.

This morning's glorious sunshine is starting to give way to heavy gray clouds and it's starting to lightly rain when I pull up outside Soo-Jin's place. She's waiting on the corner and hurries into the car as the downpour intensifies. "We missed you at dinner," I say.

"Is that right? Maybe I'll have to crash the party next time," she smiles. "So what'd I miss?"

"Apart from some really good steak and shrimp? We went to see Ant Macfarland."

Her face falls. "I bet that went well."

"You'd think so. Cope was laying on the charm." That makes her laugh. "He's really not open to any scenario other than it being Jefferies that was ripping him off," I tell her seriously.

"Yeah, he can be a bit like that. Once he gets the stick, he's not letting go, no matter which end he's picked up."

"Inquisitor called as soon as we stepped out of the place," I continue. "Only he called Cope direct."

"Is that unusual?"

"Cope said it was Henry Wood that recruited him."

"So SecuroServ probably transferred files for everyone Wood was handling to new Supervisors. Inquisitor's your handler and you were still working with Cope, so he's probably now overseeing all three of you. Makes sense that your all handled together."

"Not me. I was officially fired, remember?"

"How can I forget," she pouts. Rain is really coming down hard now and visibility is starting to diminish. It's a rare chance to see the city with the sidewalks deserted, particularly as we cross Downtown via Legion Square. I wonder if there'll be any working girls out tonight? The realisation that there probably will reignites my anger, reminds me what I'm doing all this for.

Cope's waiting outside the warehouse and opens it up for us as we approach so we can just cruise straight in. He locks up after and Soo-Jin climbs into the cramped back seat of the Elegy so I can drive Cope down with us to where Paige, Dakota and Eliza are waiting.

Paige is hunched over her laptop and scowling even more than usual. I glance over at Cope and he doesn't look any happier. Dakota's wearing an expression that's difficult to read and Eliza's got her panicked face on again.

"What's going on," I ask.

"I'll let her tell you," he grimaces, staring hard in Paige's direction.

She turns her laptop around slightly as Soo-Jin and I walk over to her. Onscreen is an aerial view of Fort Zancudo. Immediately the two of us dial into the doom and gloom mood the rest of the crew are in. "We need a piece of military tech."

"What the Hell is wrong with you," Soo-Jin demands.

"What's wrong with me? Let me think," Paige snaps back. "One; I entrust a master plan I've been developing for over a year to a crew who turn out to have a private military crosshair on them. Two, one of that crew now has the FIB on her tail. Three; my truck's damaged, who knows how much it's going to cost me to get it fixed. And four, the one item I really need, the one we tried to grab the other night? Remember there were four of them? Lester has one, the one I wanted got destroyed and the only other one I can find is here."

"This is the radar thing you were talking about," I ask. "That's what the Insurgent is for."

"I hoped with your backgrounds, you'd be able to look like you were supposed to be there, get in and out without raising any alarms."

"In case you didn't notice, all of us are civilians now," Soo-Jin complains. "They'll shoot us with little or no warning if we approach without verifiable clearance."

"The Air Force are onsite, as well as the Marines and Army. Air space is strictly restricted," I add.

"I might have an idea," Dakota cuts in and all eyes turn in his direction. "I told you I run air freight, right? Well, the guy I work for has a few pilots working for him. One of them happens to own one of the hangars inside Fort Zancudo."

"So he has clearance," I realise. "How well do you get on with this guy?"

"I'm sure he'll do us the favor and get us in, as long as we do him one in return," Dakota shrugs.

"Where is this radar and how big is it," Soo-Jin asks.

Paige clicks on the trackpad of her laptop and shows us a schematic of the rig. "It filled the trunk of the Kuruma they blew up trying to get you. For the time being it's still in a crate, they've only just taken ownership of it. I'm hoping they've not figured out exactly what it is yet."

"Taken ownership from who," Cope asks now.

"Some arms traffickers they apprehended and took it from," Paige confirms. "They were en-route to deliver it with some other weapons to a buyer in the far East when they got busted."

"There's gun smugglers in LS," I ask, naïvely.

"There are multiple illicit weapons manufacturing and smuggling operations spread out across Blaine County," Eliza explains. "Jefferies used to do a little bit of business with some of 'em. He was considering it as a new line of business but he never went all in because he was paranoid the Government had its fingers in the pie."

"But Zancudo's a Military base. It's got Air Force, Army and Marines onsite. Why would _any_ of them be getting involved in an ATF bust," Soo-Jin complains.

"It's also an IAA blacksite," Paige frowns. "Probably they had their eye on the device and this was their best shot at getting it without them having to have stolen it themselves in the first place. We know how they spend more time battling the Feds for funding than they do overseas terrorists." Her mood seems to have shifted slightly darker. "If your contact can get us in by either land or air, can you fly the package out of there?"

" _If_ I can get the clearance," Dakota confirms.

"We're still gonna need to look like we belong there once we're in," Soo-Jin interrupts. "Private owners get access to their property, but they can't move freely around the base."

"I still have my uniforms," I say.

Soo-Jin pulls a face. "Eugh, I don't have to dress up like I'm _Army_ do I? It's not Hallowe'en!"

"I'll make the call," Dakota smiles and walks away to go and find cellphone reception.

* * *

The guy's name is Lincoln Potter and he's coming in to meet us at Sandy Shores Airfield. Dakota's nervously fidgeting as we wait inside the hangar, sheltering from the rain which is now coming down in torrents. He's spent some time going over his own plane which he told me is a Jobuilt Velum, but apparently Potter has a collection of planes that Dakota's somewhat envious of and he tells me for the third time that Potter's often tried to recruit him.

The plan is that Potter and his guys are going to escort Soo-Jin and I into the base and make arrangements to have a buyer fly in to collect some of the air freight he deals in. While he arranges clearance, Soo-Jin and I will be putting on my old uniforms and slipping away from the hangar into the base to recover the radar system. By the time Dakota gets here, we'll hopefully have the crate transported to the landing zone ready to transfer to the plane.

Cope doesn't like it any more than I do, but our little plan doesn't afford for him to be inside Fort Zancudo with us. So he's gonna be in the Insurgent waiting for us to get in and get out. Once Dakota flies us out of there, he'll follow on the ground back to Sandy Shores to pick us and the radar up.

That's the plan. Simple, right?

Potter pulls up into the hangar in a white Gallivanter Baller that's clearly got some armor upgrades. He's a visibly strong, tall blond guy, slender but with well-defined muscles clearly visible under his skintight T-shirt and unbuttoned check shirt. He's got a slight Southern accent with snakeskin boots and a Stetson to go with it. He introduces himself as Lincoln Potter with a firm handshake that suggests he can crush steel with his hands.

I admit it, I'm impressed. I'm pretty sure Soo-Jin is too, and so is Dakota as Potter squeezes his hand and shakes so firmly I'm surprised he doesn't dislocate his shoulder. He has four guys with him, all wearing identical black suits, white shirts and black ties and we'd had to stop off at a Posonby's on the way here to make sure we were uniformed appropriately so the guards on the gate wouldn't spot anything out of the ordinary. Soo-Jin and I are both invited to get into the back, with one of Potter's guys between us in the middle seat. Potter rides shotgun while the other guy takes the wheel. I see Dakota watching us as we pull away, two of Potter's guys staying with him as we drive off. He has the same bad feeling I'm trying to ignore.

"Talk around the airwaves is that our friend Rune is a little bit… Well, a little bit effeminate," Potter drawls. "I'd never met the man before this evening, but I respect his skills and he's got a good reputation for getting' stuff done."

Soo-Jin looks across at me. I'm trying to keep my emotions in check. Potter laughs. "Guess what I'm askin' is whether either of you two are his lady, or if that ain't what he's interested in?"

"Dakota's cool," Soo-Jin says firmly and turns to watch the rain pounding against the window.

"The term is 'gender fluid'. He doesn't subscribe to a strict gender stereotype," I argue in Dakota's defence.

"'Gender fluid'," Potter laughs again. "The things those kids think up. I ain't gotta worry 'bout him stroking my leg or anything, have I?"

"It's the personality he's interested in, not the body. After he saw his brother killed in Iraq, he hasn't got time for any of the bullsh*t," I say, more angrily than I'd intended.

"Well, sh*t," Potter appraises. "I didn't know that. Sad for their Mom, two kids go off an' only one comes home. But to serve their country. Can't have anythin' but respect for that."

"We appreciate you going out of your way for us," I say. "Dakota didn't mention what you wanted in return."

Potter chuckles at that. "Don't worry, I've got something in mind. Won't take much effort on your part, but it'll pay me back and then some."

"You still want Dakota working for your organisation," I press.

"It'd be nice. He's a hell of a pilot. Too bad he ain't ever gonna say 'yes' though."

Soo-Jin's still glaring out of the window and I've already exhausted my conversational abilities, so we spend the rest of the ride in silence, until we're eventually pulling up to the entry road to the Fort.

"Okay, sit tight, we're here," Potter drawls.

The Gallivanter slows to a stop and through the windscreen we can see the blur of the light over the gate, uniformed soldiers on guard duty in the hut wearing slick rain coats over their uniforms. One of them trudges up to the driver's side, peers inside and sees Potter and that's all he needs.

"Hi son," Potter greets him with a wide grin.

The soldier turns back to his colleagues and calls "let him in, he owns one of the hangars." Then he leans back into the car. "Have a nice day, Sir."

"You too, Corporal," Potter smiles back. Ahead of us the gate opens and the driver gets the Gallivanter moving, takes us inside the base and onwards to the inside of the hangar, where Potters full collection of planes sits on standby, all polished to perfection and as immaculately maintained as Dakota had been enthusing about. Potter is obviously significantly wealthy. I couldn't tell one apart from another on sight, but Dakota has told us that there's a Buckingham Nimbus, which is probably the black luxury private jet with gold trim, an LF-22 Starling which I guess is the single-seater that looks like a military jet leftover from the 60's, a Buckingham Vestra which is the smaller light aircraft painted in white and orange. Then taking up the most space between them is the Soviet RM-10 Bombushka, a big green military plane and the one Dakota had been most excited about, a four-prop Mammoth Tula which wouldn't have been out of place in a Vinewood blockbuster movie starring a team of aging former action stars.

Once the driver switches off the Gallivanter's engine, Soo-Jin and I climb out without waiting to be invited and make our way to the back where our bags are waiting for us in the trunk. Potter climbs out and ambles unhurriedly towards us. "Alright, you ladies don't cause any trouble and I'll go arrange clearance for our friend Rune," he says and makes his way over to a side door. "Don't mind Barrett or Sparks here," he calls back from the doorway. Outside the wind is really beginning to pick up and I hope Dakota's going to be able to safely fly through the storm. "They're just keeping an eye on what's mine."

Soo-Jin knocks a couple times on the tailgate and calls "hey yo, you gonna pop this or what?"

Barrett and Sparks slowly climb out of the Gallivanter. The driver stays by the vehicle watching us while the other walks across the hangar to some storage lockers, comes back with a couple of duffel bags that he throws down in front of us. "Why don't you put these on instead," he says, calmly but in a manner that doesn't leave room for argument. "They're better," he says as we look at him in confusion.

I crouch down and unzip one of the bags. Black stealth combat gear is stowed inside. Again I look up at the guy. "Put them on," he instructs and now I notice the driver has his gun drawn.

They keep their eye on us as we undress and get changed. The driver keeps his gun drawn the whole time.

"Now put the camo cream on," the other guy orders when we're dressed in the black gear. While we're applying it to our faces, he draws his weapon too. "Step back," he orders once we're done and now both men level their weapons at us. "Back, back, keep going. Okay stop. Now get down on your knees. Hands on your heads."

Anger and fear fuse together. I risk a glance at Soo-Jin and can tell she's feeling the same way. Our weapons and our phones are still shut in the trunk of the Gallivanter, barely ten feet away. They may as well be a hundred miles. Behind us, the door opens and Potter walks back in, accompanied by an older man that I recognise as an Air Force Colonel from my time stationed here, talking charismatically to him as they enter. We immediately catch the Colonel's eye.

"Who're these two?"

"They're working for the thieves that ripped me off in the first place," I hear Potter say. "We caught 'em sneaking onto the base to try and steal the stuff back."

"And what's going to happen to them," the Colonel asks, with some concern. Potter might be keeping him sweet with little backhand deals here and there, but at least he's still chivalrous enough to be concerned for us.

"Do you want 'em," Potter asks him.

"No! I want as little involvement in this as possible," the Colonel snaps. "What are you gonna do with them," he asks, quieter, a note of concern in his voice.

"Nothing too bad, we're just gonna question 'em, find out who they're working for. Then we'll cut 'em loose somewhere, let 'em find their way back to civilization while we put an end to their operation in the meantime." He stops, puts an arm around the Colonel's shoulders. "Honestly, you can keep the guns, it's just the equipment that I need back."

"And it's not a threat to America or its citizens?"

"It's just a radar," Potter assures him.

"Your plane's en-route?"

"About five minutes out. The Jobuilt Velum I told you about."

"You've got fifteen minutes for him to get here, get it loaded, get your stuff and get those two _out of here_."

The Colonel strides out of the hangar and Potter approaches us, waves to his guys to stand down and indicates for us to stand up. "Sorry for the theatrics ladies, but I've got a business to run here. Can't risk you two getting caught and them finding out I _smuggled_ you in here. Now, the Colonel's going to have your crate bought to the runway for us. Nice and easy see?"

"You've got an arrangement in place," I realize and Potter beams at me.

"Of course! Why'd you think I set up my operation here in the first place?"

"Can we have our gear," Soo-Jin says more than asks.

"Sorry about that," Potter says uncomfortably. "Barrett, why don't you call their back up guy outside? Tell him we're gonna hand the ladies' stuff over. He can give it you when you rendezvous at the drop off, alright?"

Barrett, the one who'd had us put on the black gear steps away and puts his phone to his ear, but we can't hear the conversation. A minute or two later he comes back and confirms to Potter "it's all set."

"Alright ladies. A few more minutes and we'll all be concluded. One more show to put on."

Now Barrett's producing zip-tie cuffs and approaching us. "Gotta keep it realistic," Potter goes on as I allow Barrett to pull my wrists behind my back and cuff me. I'm flexing as much as I can though. Barrett's sure to fasten 'em tight, but not so tight that there's no slack when I relax. Soo-Jin does likewise, and glares hard at Potter, so hard he has to look away and laugh nervously as Barrett cuffs her in the same fashion.

"I promise you, we're nearly through," Potter says reassuringly and now he leads us over to the huge hangar doors as Barrett heads towards the controls to open it up.

Outside the rain is lashing down, blown haphazardly in all directions by the howling wind. Visibility isn't worth s***. Barrett and Sparks flank us and Potter grips onto his hat as he leads us across the tarmac to where Dakota's plane is tentatively fighting the storm to try and come down. He aborts the first attempt and circles around to line it up for a better attempt. We watch it coming down over the sea to the runway, the storm constantly trying to throw it off balance. For a second it looks like he's going to catch the wing on the ground and wreck it, but then he levels out and his wheels bounce off the ground, once, twice, then he's down and braking to a stop.

As soon as it's still, Potter leads us out towards it as the rain hammers my head. I can't protect myself from it with my hands still cuffed behind me. My eyes are stinging and watering. I can just make out the forklift truck that's bringing our crate to the plane as we approach and then the hatch opens. There's three men in the plane but none of them are Dakota.

"Oh, s***," Soo-Jin curses but it's already too late.

"Soo-Jin Mun," the first guy out of the plane greets. He's wearing cargo pants, hiking boots and a beaten up long-sleeve T-shirt along with a deerstalker hat with the earmuffs blowing in the wind. The other two guys are similarly unkempt militants. One of them stays in the plane, keeping it running while the other two fix us with their pistols as we're ushered towards the plane by Potter's guys.

"You set us up, you a$$hole," I snap at Potter. Barrett tries to give me a shove so I turn around and headbutt him, but then one of the militants rushes up and puts a gun to my head.

"I told you I had something in mind to pay me back," Potter shrugs. "Somebody ripped off these guys for the same piece of tech you wanted. I get 'em _their_ stuff back and looks like the crew that stole it from 'em too."

"What did you do with Dakota?"

"Yeah, shame about him. Hell of a pilot, but in this business you're either one of mine or you're a rival. Hope the plane's still usable when they land it, I could use it for my expansion into Sandy Shores."

I want to fight more, but I'm forcibly shoved by the militant and by a furious Barrett, holding his gun with one hand and his bleeding nose with the other, towards the plane. They have to grab Soo-Jin and force her in as she strikes out at them with vicious kicks, screaming, spitting and biting so much it takes all of 'em barring Potter.

Finally we're all loaded. The passenger keeps his pistol trained on us as the pilot takes his seat behind the controls and works to get us into the air.

"Didn't think we'd be seeing you again so soon," the passenger taunts.

"You mean you hoped you wouldn't," Soo-Jin spits back.

The passenger laughs coldly and turns his attention to me. "Hope you aren't too attached to your friend," he sneers. From behind me the third guy starts fastening me into something and I realise it's a parachute. With my arms bound behind me he has to put it on backwards so the chute is against my chest, the straps criss-crossed over my bound arms and the waist strap pulled tight at the base of my spine. "Sorry, but you're dead weight we're gonna have to lose," he tells me.

I want to argue, but the hatch is already opened and I'm shoved out of the plane. The parachute immediately deploys and I'm left falling slowly back to Earth, helplessly watching the plane disappear with Soo-Jin and our cargo.

* * *

My immediate fear is that I'm going to fall free of the parachute. With my arms bound behind me, I'm gripping on to the crossed shoulder straps as best as I can behind my back and I have no control over my descent, nor any shelter from the rain that's whipping viciously at my face. I can't even see where I'm going to land and I'm praying I'm not either going to hit a tree and plummet to the ground to either die or become paralyzed, or else plunge into a lake or a river and drown.

The steep hillside in Great Chaparral is marginally better, but still when I make landfall I slip and tumble, terrified, crashing through scrub and sliding through wet mud until I can finally bring myself to a stop and begin to struggle to free myself from the parachute bag. The shoulder straps are criss-crossed over my bound arms so it takes me a couple of minutes to get myself free of that and loosen the waist strap, then I draw my legs over my wrists so finally I have my hands in front of me. Breaking out of the cuffs is a simple matter of raising my arms above my hand and then throwing them down a few times until I've worked them slack enough that I can scrape a wrist free and then yank them off the other and throw them away.

Now I just have to worry about being alone, wet and lost in wilderness with no weapons and no form of communication. As I'd been coming down I'd seen some lights off to my right but the slip-slide had thrown me off a little. I set off hiking up a slope ahead of me hoping I'd catch a glimpse of something resembling civilisation soon enough that would set me on the right path.

The slope bought me to a dirt road. I followed that downhill for a while, hoping it would bring me to a main road. Somewhere in the distance I could hear a car engine. Maybe civilization wasn't too far away.

I continued to trudge down the dirt road. Apart from the engine and the howling wind, and rain buffeting against my soaked, muddy clothing, the night was silent. After maybe ten minutes it became clear that the car wasn't going away, in fact it seemed to be looping around in circles. Like the driver was looking for something. That made me want to get off the dirt road quick.

The hairs began to stand on the back of my neck and I felt my senses heighten. Maybe another ten minutes, for all I knew it could have been only five or it could have been an hour, but that car was still not going away. In the dark stormy night, I couldn't get an exact fix on where it was coming from, it seemed to echo all around me, so I kept glancing back as I continued to make my way down until finally I reached a fork. A little way further down to the left was an old farmhouse. I began to approach it when finally, I saw the light of the car's headlights on the main road far below. Before it stopped for the driver to consider the dirt track that would bring them up towards me, I broke into a run.

The farmhouse looked deserted, dilapidated, a rusted fence made from what appears to be scrap metal falling apart around it's perimeter, a bunch of rusted out vehicles stacked in its backyard, old paint flaking off the house itself, the land around it rough and dead where it should have been arable and fertile.

The car is definitely trundling up the dirt track when I reach the house, but now the lights are off. I press myself against the rear corner of the house wondering what to do and hear sounds from inside, even though the windows are boarded up. My blood begins to run cold, wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into out here. Almost as if on cue, the side door of the house is thrust open under the lean-to car shelter and a heavyset guy in a wifebeater vest and a gasmask steps out into the night air.

Keeping as low and as quiet as I can, with my heart seemingly hammering at the base of my throat, I make my way to the opposite side, but it's too close to the fence; I can't squeeze my way in there. I'm considering trying to scramble over the fence, hoping it'll hold my weight and not fall free when I hear angry voices. At first I think I've been made, but whirling around, I can't see anybody there.

"Turn the car _around_ a$$hole," I hear somebody snap and realise it must be the gasmask guy.

"Get back in your house and mine your own damn business," is the reply, and it's a voice I recognise – Cole! Then there's a click, the unmistakable noise of a shotgun being racked. "Put it down! You're not what I'm out here for," I hear Cole demand. There's an angry snarl in response and then a gunshot rings out, but it's not a shotgun, it's more like a .45.

I edge my way back towards the opposite corner of the house, but now there are more angry voices and the .45 rings out a couple more times. As I edge around, I see Cole's Vamos. Cole himself is crouched in cover behind it, exchanging fire with unseen hostiles within the house, clearly outgunned as his car takes damage on its passenger side. Gas mask guy lies dead maybe ten feet away, the shotgun lying prone on what would be the lawn if it wasn't a dead patch of mud. No point not getting involved. I spring from my hiding place for it and snatch it up, take a position of cover by the door. Cole's clearly surprised, almost shoots me before realising who I am. From his position of cover he gives me vague instructions as to where the hostiles are so when the firing from inside the house pauses, I'm able to swing around the door frame and put my first round into a skinny guy wearing tan cargo shorts and nothing else. I get him in his midriff at close range and he's propelled away from me as I swing back into cover and Cole opens up with his .45 to kill another guy. There's a bang from the far side of the house and a guy in a black unbuttoned shirt, jeans and hiking boots appears clutching an assault rifle. I level the shotgun at him and put him down before he can open up with it.

"You know who's lab this is? You a$$holes are _dead_ ," somebody screams from inside, allowing Cole and I to both get a fix on their position. He's trying to rush out when Cole and I both fire at him, shutting him up. He joins me inside the house and we sweep the place for further hostiles or signs of surveillance equipment, but it's clear. Neither of us speak, but Cole beckons for me to follow him and we both hurry back to his Vamos, although I stop on the way to get the assault rifle.

Only when we're back on the road and hauling a$$ the Hell away from there do I feel okay to ask Cole "what are you doing out here?"

"Cope called me," he replies, still concentrating on putting as much distance as he can between us and the house. "Told me your thing had gone South and that he couldn't get to you fast enough. That house was a meth lab. Belongs to a Canadian psychopath called Trevor Philips. He attacked The Lost a while back and is trying to drive us out of our businesses in the area, but we're gradually pushing back. Still, that was an unsanctioned hit, so I'm hoping nobody saw us. Here," he says and hands me his cellphone. "Call Cope back, let him know I've got you."

"Thank you," I say with heartfelt gratitude and dial the number.

Cope answers quickly. "Is she with you?"

"It's me," I tell him and hear him breathe a sigh of relief. "Potter set us up-"

"I know," he interrupts. "Dakota called me, gave me the heads up."

"Is he okay?"

"He says they gave him a bit of a beating. Not bad enough he wasn't able to put 'em down and get the warning out, but he says he's gonna need some time."

I feel sick, knowing what that means. Neither of us have dealt with our issues yet. "The guys that took us recognised Soo-Jin, they seem to have some history," I warn Cope.

"Yeah, I know who they are and I've got a good idea where they're taking her. I'm heading over there now and I'm hoping I can get there in time. Are you driving?"

"No, Cole is," I confirm.

"Alright, well set up your GPS for these co-ordinates," he tells me.

I punch them in as soon as Cope's relayed them to me and show the screen to Cole. "Ah, sh*t," he curses as his face falls.

"You know where that is," I ask him, surprised.

"Yeah. They're a bunch of redneck survivalist batsh*t freaks. They live in a bunker and run weapons," he grimaces. "Another unsanctioned hit."

"If it's gonna get you in trouble with the club you can drop me off somewhere," I tell him.

He gives me a hurt look. "Are you kidding? You're beat up enough. You're going _there_ , I'm going with you."

"My hero," I tease, but I can't help the smile that spreads across my face.

"I'm your boy, remember," he quips back. "I'm just not sure how we're gonna get in."

"I know a couple of girls who can help us with that," I tell him.

* * *

The bunker's in the Grand Senora Desert, a little ways south of Bolingbroke Penitentiary, so close you can see the lights and the guard towers. Great place to smuggle weapons, just under the noses of the people who'll be paid to enforce your incarceration if you get caught. We spot the plane, burned out on a grassy plain as we're driving in. Dakota's going to be _really_ upset. Cope's arrived a few moments ahead of us. We see the Insurgent parked between the farmhouse and the barn, witness the flashes of a firefight inside the house nearby the concrete bunker's entrance and a few seconds later he comes out, fixing us over the barrel of his weapon until he recognises us and lowers it. "The house is clear, but they'll know we're onto 'em downstairs," he tells us. "It's wired up pretty well with cameras. The ladies are working on getting us in."

"Maybe there's a control inside the house," I suggest.

"There is. They severed it when they saw me taking out their sentries."

"Maybe we can still use it," Cole says, surprising the both of us. "What, did you forget I was an engineer?"

"You did demolitions," I argue, trailing him as he goes to the trunk of his car and pops the lid.

"It's all just wiring," he counters, lifting out a toolkit in a zip-up leatherette case. "There should be some vents for getting air in, and maybe a back way in or out. Have your people see if they can pull up schematics," he says to Cope as he makes his way into the house. I follow to watch him work, but prop myself in the doorway so I can still watch Cope's back as well, until he makes his way in with us.

"Maybe there's a hidden door somewhere in the house," he says to me quietly and begins to sweep, kick and break stuff.

"Or the barn," I counter.

Meanwhile, Cole locates the access control and cuts the cables to it with a tool from his kit, wires a device that looks like a handheld computer to it with a sliding keyboard. A minute or so later, something appears on the screen. It looks impressive, but Cole curses "ah, sh*t."

"No good," I ask.

He shakes his head. "No, they've literally cut the cables from underground. It's dead."

Cope is smashing floorboards and kicking through walls behind us, but he's not finding anything. "It's not in here," he decides, finally. "Let's try that barn." We're heading to the door when a gunshot stops us in our tracks and all three of us hit the deck as automatic weapons fire rips through the wooden walls from all directions. I hear Cole grunt and see he's holding on to his shoulder where fresh blood is staining his shirt. I make my way over to him in alarm.

"It's just a graze," he assures me through gritted teeth. "Burns like a m*th*rf****r!"

Cope's the first to return fire, but the incoming fire is now getting concentrated lower, forcing us to find heavier fixtures to hide behind. "Cameras," I realise and we spend the next few seconds shooting out as many as we can see while we relocate to the rear of the house. Two militants are plainly visible out there so Cope and I co-ordinate our shots to take both of them out. Two more, unsighted shooters return fire, forcing us back into cover and we relocate again back to the kitchen, just as somebody is edging their way inside. I take care of him as we duck behind the kitchen island.

"Eliza's got satellite," Cope tells us, holding his earpiece to hear her over the firefight. "She's got their heat signatures and she knows where they've come out from. Looks like you were right, Coleman, the hatch is in the barn. Cole, pass me your computer."

Cole reaches up with his good arm, attracting a couple of shots with the movement, pulls his equipment down from the kitchen work surfaces and slides it across the ground. Cope follows some instructions from either Eliza or Paige and then he's got an augmented reality readout on where the hostiles are. Meanwhile, I rip a T-shirt from one of the dead militants to patch up Cole's shoulder. He's right – the bullet has just grazed across the top but it's left a pretty deep long cut. I could do with some alcohol or something to sterilise it, but I have to work with what I've got so I make him a thick makeshift pad and stuff it under his shirt, hoping it'll hold in place just to stem the bleeding.

Cope meanwhile is manoeuvring through the house using the screen to pinpoint where the hostiles are. He picks a few off clinically, changing position after each shot to prevent them getting a fix on him, but he's caught in between points by debris kicked out form a wild shot and he drops to the ground clutching his left hand as it starts bleeding again as Cole's computer skitters across the floor.

"F***'s sake you two," I mutter and scramble over on my stomach, regardless of the splintered wood, broken glass and spilled blood covering the floor to pick up the device and take over the shooting. "See if you can stand some of the bodies up to draw fire," I command and the two guys crawl over to where I'm crouched.

Our decoy does the trick, exposing two shooters that I'm then able to neutralise. We have similar success from the kitchen and then relocate to one of the bedrooms, but then they get wise to us. I hear the clatter and know what it is even before Cope yells "grenade!"

I shove Cole out of the window and then drop to the floor with one hand over my head, clutching my assault rifle with the other as the grenade detonates and showers shrapnel in all directions through the walls.

"Cope," I yell while I'm checking myself for injuries.

"I'm alright," he calls back. Then "oh, _s***_!"

Glass smashes and there's a flash of orange light. They're burning us out. Beyond the walls I hear Cole's .45 spit twice and have to trust he's got things in hand out there as I bail out through the window I'd shoved him through. He has, but as I'm scrambling up from the floor, another of the militants comes around the house, Molotov cocktail in hand. His gaze fixes on me and I panic but then he's cut down from behind by automatic fire. I'm expecting it to have been Cope, but it isn't.

I'm still trying to get over the shock of seeing a Black Ops team on the ground when a helicopter flies overhead and then the barn explodes, showering splintered wood, burning hay and bits of the militants that had been staging their attack from inside there all over the place. While I'm dealing with the shellshock from _that_ , someone pries my rifle from my hands and pushes me down onto the ground face down. A few seconds later, I see Cole being similarly flanked, put down by one guy while two others continue the firefight. These guys are well armed, heavily armored and equipped with night vision. The militants are neutralised rapidly.

When the firefight has ended, and the engines of the helicopter have fallen silent, Cole and I are put side-by-side on our knees. Cope is walked over to us, blood splattered down his left side but otherwise unharmed and he's knelt before us too.

Once we're assembled, we get to meet the helicopter passenger. Denim Sherpa, the guy who'd been driving for Lane Aguirre last night. He stops in front of Cole and says to the closest of the Black Ops guys guarding us "this one's Lost MC. He might be a problem."

"Wait," I cry. "He's only here because of me."

"Oh, got yourself an exciting boyfriend," Denim Sherpa taunts me, pulling a phone from his jacket pocket and dialling. "It's okay, stand down," he adds, addressing the Black Ops guy who'd been tensing himself to shoot Cole as soon as the order was given. He looks disappointed as he relaxes. Meanwhile Denim Sherpa puts the phone to his ear and says into it "okay I got 'em," before putting it on speaker phone and holding it down between Cope and I.

"Well you two sure get around," Lane Aguirre tells us. "We've had our eye on this bunch of hicks for a while but we've been waiting for probable cause to move against 'em. Seems they've become a thorn in your side too, so you can go some way towards paying off your account."

"Hah," Cope bursts.

"Wait a minute, you turn up here with all this ordnance, but you're sending us downstairs to clear them out for you," I ask.

"I told you, we have no probable cause. At least not until 'you went down there making trouble'. Even Black Ops have to go through the accountants," Aguirre responds. "They'll back you up, when the time's right. Just try not to damage anything down there. Fourteen?"

Denim Sherpa pulls the phone away, turns off the speaker and puts it back to his ear. "Uh-huh. Yep. We're all ready to go, soon as the place is clear. Yes Sir, uh, Ma'am." The call finished, he puts the phone away and calls to another of the Black Ops guys, pointing at Cole. "If he's gonna carry on breathing then he could use some medical." Then he holds out a hand to me to help me to my feet. I ignore it and stand up on my own. "Running low on ammo," he asks me, not put off. "We have plenty so you can help yourself to what you need."

He leads me over to a black truck that's pulled up nearby our Insurgent and Cole's car. The back of it is a heavy-duty armory. "What's your interest in this place," I ask as Cope and I reload our weapons and stash as many spare magazines as we can carry. Cope takes half a dozen of the different kinds of grenades on offer, a couple smoke, a couple flash bangs and a couple of the traditional shrapnel-throwing variety.

"Same purpose it's already being used for, making and selling weapons. Only we'll be selling them a little bit more discriminately. Destabilising unfriendly regimes, arming militias, manufacturing tomorrow's headlines the good old fashioned American way," he tells me. "There's money in it, if you wanna go into a partnership?"

"No thanks," I scowl. Cope remains silent but looks equally disgusted.

"Alright, well, they're probably expecting you to come in through the back door so they've likely got a welcome party waiting for you. _This_ might help, but you didn't get it from me In fact, you never had it. And try not to damage any of the equipment, or you'll be put to work replacing it."

* * *

Paige finally managed to get us schematics. Her mood was even more sour than usual. Having an IAA agent invade your workspace and tell you what to do with your computer can have that effect, I guess. Meanwhile, Cope's had his hand bandaged again and he and I are descending, one either side of the corridor, into the bunker. We're borrowing night-vision goggles and helmets from our new friends, and something else. Denim Sherpa, or Agent 14 as he introduced himself, was right – they were waiting for us and we're soon pinned back as multiple automatic weapons start to spit at us. Time to use my new toy; a Shrewsbury revolving grenade launcher loaded with ten 40mm M576 buckshot grenades. It gives a hollow spit as it fires and then there's a loud blast that would have deafened us had the Black Ops crew not supplied us with ear plugs. After that I switch to the assault rifle and resistance is greatly reduced.

The first guy is dying anyway and Cope puts him out of his misery before he can get to lifting his weapon in our direction. The next one manages to fire a couple shots in our general direction that ricochet off the walls and I fire back, but he's ducked into cover behind a vertical drilling machine. I keep him distracted while Cope slips around the other side and kills him while he's preoccupied with returning fire in my direction.

I get the next two, one mortally wounded by the grenade, holding his stomach as he stumbles towards me, the other peppered down one side and p*ssed. If he'd not been growling with rage as he approached he'd probably have blind-sided me. Now it's quiet. Cope and I quickly, quietly sweep for anybody else that might be down here. All we can hear is a frantic banging.

A heavy door opens off to our right, catching us both by surprise. We swing our weapons around, but we're already too late. The guy coming through it is the one from the plane that had recognised Soo-Jin back at the Military base. He looks at us panicked and then his head is caved in from behind with a large, heavy wrench. His corpse drops to the ground revealing an angry Soo-Jin, blood staining down the right side of her face. "Semper Fe, mother _f****r_ ," Soo-Jin snaps at the body, before screaming "I'm a f*****g _Marine_!"

Now she levels her stare at us. "You took your f*****g time," she pouts, then helps herself to a military grade assault rifle hanging on a rack at one of the workstations, slots in a magazine and test fires it into the corpse of the guy she'd killed with the wrench, but then we're flanked by Black Ops guys as they rush into the bunker, levelling their weapons at us.

"Drop 'em," we're ordered and, of course, we comply.

They escort us out of the front entrance of the bunker which rises up on heavy duty hydraulics, walk us out into the cold air of the post-midnight early morning. Finally the rain has stopped and there's a fresh breeze, although in the soaked black combat gear I'm still wearing from Potter's hangar, it's more of a chill. Agent 14 is once again on his phone, and doesn't seem to agree with the instructions he's receiving. Nonetheless, he has a group of Black Ops guys march into the bunker and when they return they're carrying our crate and load it for us into the back of the Insurgent.

"You sure I can't interest any of you in staying down here," Agent 14 asks us as we drink the coffee that the Black Ops crew have offered to share with us. "You make the weapons, we arrange the sales, point you in the direction of rival outfits around the state to get your materials from, unofficially sanctioned by us as you shut them down and you get a tidy profit for your trouble?"

Soo-Jin stays quiet, radiating hostility. Cope looks away, far too exhausted to get involved in any of this s**t. I sigh, the only response he's gonna get from us.

"Alright," Agent 14 relents and hands me his phone.

"Nice work down there," Lane Aguirre tells me. "As a sign of good faith, we're letting you keep the equipment you wanted. Call it an investment in your future potential."

"Call it what you want," I argue weakly, but I don't really have the heart to back it up with anything meaningful right now.

"I'm not your enemy Sergeant Coleman," Aguirre insists, nonetheless picking up on me being less than enthusiastic about any future joint ventures. "In fact, quite the reverse. I'm an ally who you'd be wise to keep on your side."

"Whatever. We jumped through your hoops. We'll do what we need to do to keep you off our backs but for now we need to rest, heal and try and resurrect our own thing."

"I suppose that's good enough," Aguirre sighs. "Goodnight Sergeant Coleman," she says and hangs up.

"Well, I'll be seeing you," Agent 14 says as I hand him his phone back. "Or, maybe, I won't. Or _I_ will, but _you_ won't. Whatever."

Finally, he walks away, heading into the bunker to oversee the taking over of the operations down there. We hang around long enough to get our stuff back from the Black Ops guys that had confiscated it and then Soo-Jin and Cope trudge towards the Insurgent.

"Hey," I call to Cope, stopping him. "Thanks for calling Cole."

He exhales, looks away for a second, then back at me. "Yeah. I still don't trust him, but I trust you and I was pretty sure he'd want to help keep you safe."

"Fair enough," I agree. He stands awkwardly for a few seconds more. Meanwhile Soo-Jin fires up the Insurgent and gives it an impatient rev.

"Talk to you tomorrow," Cope says and turns away to join her in it.

Before he's even shut the door, she guns it and the big vehicle blasts out of the farm to take the radar equipment back to La Mesa while I tumble exhausted into the passenger seat of Cole's Vamos. He grunts with discomfort as he slides into the driver's seat beside me.

"Hey, are you okay to drive this thing," I ask him.

"Sure. Just slide it into reverse for me," he replies. I do and he backs us out of the farm onto the dirt road, then pauses so I can slide it into drive and he cruises us Northwards.

"Where are we going," I ask him.

In the dim light I barely make out his grin. "You'll see."

We stop off at a 24/7 off Route 68 on the outskirts of Sandy Shores so Cole can buy me a couple of burner phones. The way I keep going through them, I hate to think what my carbon footprint is on E-waste alone. He buys some beers and some potato chips and chocolates while he's in there because I haven't eaten since midday at The Venetian. I try and call Dakota once I've got one of the phones activated, but it just goes through to voicemail. Likewise Eliza.

Eventually, with my belly full of road food, Cole's heating warm me up and the drone of the road noise, I doze off. When I wake up, the car's stopped and Cole is sat on the hood. I check the time; 02:58. Cole looks back over his shoulder as he hears me opening my door and watches me as I come to join him. He's parked us overlooking the sea, illuminated by the glow of a nearby firepit. Off to the right, the rocks have formed a natural tunnel. High overhead I hear the low rumble of a commercial passenger jet. "Where are we," I yawn.

He smiles at me. "A secret place. A cove just off the Palomino Highlands," he relents when I stare at him. "Here," he says, slipping off his leather jacket and draping it over my shoulders. It's holding his warmth.

"Paxton Cole, did I accidentally pick the only romantic biker in The Lost for my f*** buddy," I tease.

He laughs, looks away nervously. I listen to the sea rolling in and crashing on the nearby rocks for a while before he finally answers. "I used to come here as a kid, soon as I got my driver's license. Always wondered about bringing a girl up here."

"How did you find it," I ask.

"By accident, mainly. Got lost one night, followed the road to its end and found it. Seemed like the perfect place to stop for a smoke."

"What road," I ask, wondering how I'd ever find it again.

"Uh, Sustancia I think," he replies. I tense, wondering if he, or The Lost have tracked me here, but there's no threat, or malice in his voice. I'd asked a question and he'd answered. The address didn't seem to mean anything to him. Indeed, now he's sat up slightly looking at me. "What's wrong," he asks me, with genuine concern.

"Sorry," I mumble. "Poor diet and sleeping in the car. Just feel a little queasy, y'know?"

"Oh, sorry. I should have taken you somewhere for some proper food."

"I'm not sure who'd be serving vegetables at this time in the morning," I counter and he laughs. "The air's helping," I add a moment or two later."

"Good," he smiles.

Again we fall silent, listening to the sea. Gradually light begins to break over the horizon so I realize this must be the Atlantic. The fire in the pit is fading. Won't be long before it's dead. Despite Cole's jacket, I'm still cold.

"How about we go get you warmed up," he asks, sliding off his hood.

"That would be nice," I say, getting down myself and climbing back into the passenger seat of his car.

It's some time later, just after 9.30am that Cole's phone wakes us up, again in the same room at the Crown Jewels Motel. Once again I'm waking up to bad news.


	10. Chapter 10

We can't go to the scene of the latest carnage, the scrap metal recycling plant in La Puerta. There's thirty dead Vagos gang members, another ten or so Italians and the place is swarming with cops. Instead, Cole drives me to a meeting at Tequi-la-la with the other gang representatives.

The Vagos guy is angry, hurt and immediately goes on the offensive. "You Suit b*tch, you come in here just to put a f*****g bead on our foreheads," he accuses.

"Whoah," Cole argues, interrupting, but the Vagos isn't finished.

"F*****g cracker gringo _puta_ , I vote we bury her today, like we gon' have to bury _thirty_ of my brothers!"

"Seconded," the Ballas guy growls.

"Wait a minute, she was with me _the whole night_ ," Cole snaps. That shuts everybody up. Even the Triad, sitting back on the sofa, can't help but upturn his lip in a surprised grin. "We were out in Blaine County dealing with some rednecks," he tells the wall of hostility being put up by everyone. "They were running guns right under Bolingbroke."

"Sweet. So you brought us a little piece of business, I trust," the soft-spoken Families representative says optimistically.

"No. I was getting used by my IAA contact," I admit and everybody's p*ssed off again.

"So you're running with her now, ese," the Marabunta Grande El Salvadoran demands. "Your Club know about that?"

"Look. Just," Cole starts, but there's a mixture of macho whooping and angry scorn.

"We're sleeping together but I'm not anyone's property," I say sternly, raising my voice to be heard above the racket. The noise dies down. "I'll find out what I can from the LSPD," I continue. "Soon as I know anything, I'll share it with him so he can share it with the rest of you."

"You'll share it with _me_ ," the Balla demands. " _I'll_ share it out to the rest of the group."

"Why you, a$$hole," the Aztecas representative demands. Wisely, the only thing he's said so far, keeping a low profile in view of what's happened to the Vagos.

"Why not," the Families representative asks. "Clearly he doesn't like her. Our biker's liable to sugarcoat whatever she reports."

"Yeah, but _he's_ likely to downplay it," the Azteca complains.

"F*** it, I'll post it to an online bulletin board and you can all see it for yourselves," I snap. I feel for the Vagos, to a point, but I'm fed up of listening to all their bullsh*t.

"I still vote we bury her in the desert. We can do her right here and drag her out when we all finished," the Vagos sulks, starting further arguments. I can't be a$$ed to listen to their bullsh*t or their threats and stride out. Cole follows, having to jog behind me to keep up as I storm towards his car.

"I'm sorry," he starts.

"F*** it," I argue, but then soften because I can sense I've hurt him. "I'm trying to constantly prove myself, to everyone. I'm getting fed up of it," I tell him.

"You know you don't have to prove s**t to me," he says, taking a gentle hold of my arm to stop me and turn me to face him. "I've got your back."

"Against that bunch? That's impossible," I retort. "Anybody in there could snuff out either one of us at any moment."

"I know," he says, angrily. "I know," he reiterates quietly, apologetically. "This thing's falling apart before I've even got it properly together. It's gonna get me killed." We start walking again towards his car, climb in when he unlocks it, having to use the keys in the door the old-fashioned way. "Where am I taking you," he asks me when he's fired up the engine.

"Legion Square," I tell him. I'm actually going to the warehouse at La Mesa, but at this point in time I'm still feeling like keeping a few things strictly between those directly involved.

After he drops me off, I try and call Dakota as I walk over the Vespucci Boulevard bridge. Again, it goes to voicemail. "D, it's me, Winter. Call me when you're ready," I say and leave him to it. I let myself into the warehouse and descend to where my car is parked nearby the Terrorbyte. The Insurgent is in there and Cope's Retinue is gone. Nobody else is down here.

I make my way back upstairs and call the mechanic from Los Santos Customs, Kevin Gerhard. He agrees to come on over and have a look at our rig, asks me to give him forty five minutes. Then I try and call Cope. No answer. I call Soo-Jin and I'm ignored again. Then I call Eliza.

"Where are you," she asks.

"At the place," I reply. "Where's everyone else?"

"Lying low," she replies cryptically. "I'm at your house with your roommate, actually."

"Huh?"

"Shaun," she explains.

"What are you doing there?"

"At the moment I'm helping him make your living room."

"Have you heard from Dakota," I ask and she sighs. "Eliza," I press.

"He wants to be left alone," she admits.

"That's fine, just as long as he's still breathing. Look after him, okay?"

"Alright," she agrees.

"Have you heard from Paige," I ask.

"No. She was pretty p*ssed when she left last night." I'm hardly surprised.

Gerhard arrives a few minutes early, but I'm still going mad by the time he gets here, worried, bored, uncertain… I want to do something more proactive but I don't know what _to_ do, nor who to ask. Anyway, I show Gerhard the truck and he's pretty convinced he can fix it for less than five grand which is a bit of a result, considering. I ask him about potentially reinforcing it.

"What do you mean," he asks me suspiciously.

"Well, this vehicle's probably going to get hit again. It'd be nice if it was a bit more durable," I say.

He's still suspicious but eventually he admits "I might know a guy who knows a guy," and gives me a number.

As luck would have it, LS Customs has another branch not a block away from where we are so I arrange to book the Terrorbyte in the following day.

I drive Gerhard back up to the surface in the Elegy so he can get back into his own car, and I'm not sure what to do after that so I go back towards the Crown Jewels Motel. I stop off a beachfront boutique first to look at getting a bikini and I'm shocked at the prices being charged for what turns out to be two bits of flimsy material held together with string. Across the street is a liquor store so I ask the clerk what he'd recommend for a good but cheap wine. He charges me $12 for a bottle of rosé leaving me with less than $100 and no idea what I'm gonna do from here.

It takes me half an hour to figure out how to put the bikini on and tie it so it won't fall off, but I've got the pool to myself so I spend the afternoon alternating between stretching, swimming, press-ups and sit-ups, more swimming and finally just chilling out in the pool enjoying the sunshine and the wine.

I'm on my second glass and starting to feel a little bit fuzzy when a shadow blocks out my sunlight. I look up and see Soo-Jin looking down at me with a half-smile. "I'd have bought my suit if I'd known you were having a pool party," she says. I invite her to get a glass from my motel room and pour herself some wine, and then she comes and sits on one of the loungers around the pool. I'm feeling too self-conscious in the bikini so I stay in the water resting against the edge.

"I took Cope to the hospital to get his hands properly treated," she tells me. "I'm worried about his left one."

"Me too," I admit. "Did you check on Shane Morris while you were there?"

"I did," she says, brightening. "He's getting out tomorrow."

"That's good," I smile. Not least because we're down our pilot, but we could use some good news after everything. "I had a mechanic look at the truck. There's a garage nearby the warehouse so it can go in tomorrow. He reckons he can do it for under five 'k'."

"Good. Hopefully that'll get the stick out of Paige's backside," she says and we both laugh.

"How are you doing," I ask her. She's got a couple of small band-aids across her head where she'd been bleeding from last night.

"I could still do with somebody to punch," she admits. "I'm so p*ssed Dakota's guy double-crossed us. I'm just glad you blew their bunker up when you did, otherwise we might not have been having this conversation."

"I can put some clothes on if you want to spar a little," I offer.

"How about you don't and you bring your Elegy to the Vinewood Bowl parking lot at sunset," she counters with a glint in her eye. "Have it full of gas."

"I'm not sure I can afford gas," I complain.

"Alright. Just keep that bikini on and you'll have no shortage after tonight."

I dry off and wear the bikini to the meet, but I also wear the khaki shorts and white blouse I'd bought with Dakota, the hem tied over my belly so that it leaves my midriff as exposed as I dare. I'm wearing the sandals that I'd got when Henry Wood had taken me to the Posonby's branch and I've got my denim jacket on the passenger seat in case I get cold. Hopefully I'm striking the right balance, but really I have no idea. Cole's comment about wishing I still had the biker shorts and fishnets is ringing in my head.

The parking lot is full with every flavour of customised car, things I'll later learn are lowriders, more familiar muscle cars like my Dad used to appreciate and tuners, the category my Elegy falls into, mainly Japanese but with brands from Korea, Italy and Germany thrown into the mix as well. Bright coloured bodywork, polished engines, hydraulic suspension stunts, booming sound systems, everybody dressed up for the event with cans and bottles of beer and luminous fruity alcoholic drinks; it's a full on automotive party.

Soon as I pull up at the edge of the lot, my Elegy gets attention. A mixed-race quintet, three guys and two women, approach and instantly start complementing the car and it's wheels and asking me what I'm running under the hood. The modern unit draws cries of surprise and approval. It's great to be making a good impression right from the off, but I'm relieved when I notice Soo-Jin's 190z rolling in a minute or two later. She reverses it in next to mine and climbs out wearing an iridescent purple pleated miniskirt, a white top with only one sleeve, revealing a pink leopard-print bra-strap on her bare shoulder and purple basketball sneakers. She offers me a fist-bump and then a bottle of Piβwasser beer from a twelve-pack on her passenger seat, then retrieves one for herself. We pop off the lids and clink bottles. A couple of the people in the quintet recognise her and get similar greetings and she gives away more bottles of beer before she hooks her arm around me and shows me what's what around the lot.

"Over there's Drake with his Zion. The car's fast, but it oversteers 'cos he can't get it set up right. There's Hao. His Penumbra's fairly bland to look at but he's spent a _ton_ underneath, it goes like sh*t!" She's interrupted from her flow by a Latino girl in a cropped shirt, cropped track-pants and high-heeled sneakers (high-heeled _sneakers_!). "Hey girl," she cries and the two embrace. "This is my girl Shawnae," she introduces when they part.

"Hey," Shawnae greets and offers me a fist bump.

"So who's the competition tonight," Soo-Jin asks. "I need to get the Zee fired up, y'know?"

I'm wondering who is this person wearing Soo-Jin's body? She seems completely different in this environment, but this is her thing not mine, so I'm just gonna roll with it.

"I'm hearing this dude Whitey McWhiteboy or whatever is mouthing off that nothing'll beat his American Muscle. Talk is he's got a track record to back it up."

"Uh-huh. What's the bet?"

"Five cars, twenty-K buy-in, winner takes all," Shawnae tells her, brushing some of her crimped black hair from over her eyes.

"What, he's not confident enough to throw in his pink," Soo-Jin taunts.

"Did you not hear me b*tch? Man's got a track record," Shawnae exclaims, whirling around and gently putting her fist on Soo-Jin's arm to stop her in her tracks.

"I heard you," Soo-Jin replies with the seriousness I'm more used to from her. "Hey, Winter."

Shawnae chuckles at my name and I'm sure I hear her mutter "ice lady."

"Turn on the charm that keeps your biker boy keen," Soo-Jin continues. "I'mma go to work."

"Hope you got another ride home honey," Shawnae warns and slinks off towards the lowrider set. Meanwhile, Soo-Jin's storming her way to the far side of the lot where the most high-end cars are assembled. A dark blue Adder. A lime green Deveste Eight. A baby blue Grotti Itali GTO, a white Dinka Jester in racing livery, a black and chrome Mamba and a dew yellow Pegassi Tempesta.

And, at the edge of it all, a red DeClasse Tampa, clearly heavily modified, it's owner sitting confidently on its hood. I watch her chatting, laughing and posturing with the guys over there. They seem amused by her. Eventually she turns to me and beckons me over.

"Ain't she a beauty," Soo-Jin tells the guys as I approach.

"Mm-hmm. Word is, you're rocking an RH8 block under the hood, that right," the kid Shawnae must've meant was Whitey McWhiteboy asks me from the hood of the Tampa. This kid must only be twenty at the most, but the car is clearly worth upwards of $150k.

"That's right," I say icily.

"And you're both putting in your slips," he says, to Soo-Jin now. I get an icy chill down my spine and turn to her in protest.

"What I told you," she replies, pressing ahead full of confidence, ignoring me.

He laughs, shakes his head. "You're crazy, I like you. You're in."

Soo-Jin takes my arm and guides me away.

"What's that saying about fools and their money," asks me conspiratorially as we head back towards our cars.

"I don't know, that Tampa looks serious," I protest. I've got to be honest, I don't envy her chances. "What did he mean we're both putting in our slips?"

"Don't worry about it. But I do need the title to your Elegy…"

"Sh*t, Soo-Jin!"

"You wore the bikini, right?"

"Uh," I start, uncomfortably. "Wait, didn't you say something about using your body for business?"

"Nobody's gonna touch you. You're just gonna make 'em wanna," she replies. "Look, sometimes you gotta _use_ your advantage."

"Alright, what am I doing," I sigh.

"Just starting the race, is all."

We spend another twenty or thirty minutes looking around the assembled cars, talking to people, some of whom Soo-Jin knows, some not. A bunch of sports bikes roar in, catching her attention for a while, and some of the lowriders shift around, showing off their hydraulic prowess as they roll out of the lot. Soo-Jin tells me she and Shirazi used to come to these things together.

Eventually, it's time for the main event to start.

Soo-Jin had told me the route was simple; south down the Los Santos Freeway towards Downtown, stay on it as it becomes Strawberry Avenue then circle clockwise around Legion Square before coming back to the Vinewood Bowl. First car over the line being spraypainted onto the asphalt was the winner. The lowriders that had pulled out would be creating a rolling roadblock around Legion Square to reduce the risks to unaware civilians.

The racers lined up in two rows, three cars on the left, two on the right. Soo-Jin was head of the second row. Ahead of her on the left was a young kid in a yellow Karin Sultan, then Drake in his Benefactor Zion behind him and the Tampa behind that, right at the back of the pack. A serious-looking Sabre Turbo sat directly behind Soo-Jin, but even that didn't look to be a match for the kid McWhiteboy.

I took my place in front of them all in between the two rows, trying not to let my nerves show. Meanwhile, Soo-Jin wound down her window and held something out. Miniscule pink leopard-print panties that she dropped onto the asphalt before winding the window back up. I could just about make out the grins of the other racers through their windshields.

Oh well, nothing else I can do now. Reaching under my shirt, I untie the strings of my bikini top and pull it out. Lift it up above my head and then let it drop. As soon as it hits the ground, they go, two rows of vehicles roaring past me, inches away, making me want to shrink myself as small as possible as all around me the partygoers whoop and cheer.

When finally they're all gone, I retrieve the two undergarments from the ground and make my way back to the Elegy. One of the men I'd seen with McWhiteboy earlier is standing by it, giving me a stern look. "Just in case," he says to me with quiet menace. Fine, whatever. I get another beer from the box Soo-Jin left in my trunk and go back to get a closer look at some of the other cars.

I'm checking out a potent looking Vapid Flash GT and then a Grotti Brioso which looks to pack performance belying it's small stature when a voice I recognize says "I didn't have you figured for a petrol head."

I whirl around in alarm and there is Special Agent Skyla Vasquez wearing tight jeans, high-heeled knee-high boots and a white T-shirt knotted at her stomach to bare a sliver of midriff. "I wouldn't have thought this was your scene either," I counter. "Unless you're telling me I'm surrounded by criminals."

She gives me a wry grin. "The FIB's not interested in petty street racing charges. That's for the LSPD. Stuff like the Black Op that went down nearby the prison last night, though…"

Multiple possible responses whizz through my mind; 'What Black Op was that?'; 'I'm not at liberty to discuss…'; 'I don't know what you're talking about.' In the end, indecision gives me away and she laughs. Oh well, no point bullsh*tt*ng her, she knows all about it anyway. "You're well informed," I admit. "You've been tracking me?"

"Actually, you were quite difficult to pin down, Sergeant Coleman. The new hair makes a difference. Likewise the Navy SEAL. It's your buddy Mun I was able to flag. Her record's clean, former Marine, model citizen. Except she's related to some Korean hoods."

"So what do you want?"

"The truth," she snaps. "I wanna know what my team were murdered for. I wanna know _why_ and _how_ there's a kill team planted inside the FIB headquarters and _who_ they're really working for." She checks herself then, reigns in her anger. "But those IAA f***s are covering for you so clearly I'm not gonna get any of that. So instead, since you're clearly tapped in to the Los Santos underworld, I want you to help me out with some of _my_ stuff."

"You had one of them in custody," I recall, remembering the Fed that had turned on the rest of the team while they'd been pursuing us up to the base jump point in their building.

"Would you believe, he died before we could question him. Looks like hydrogen cyanide in his molar. Old school stuff."

"F***... So now you want to use us to get you some big scores on your arrest record," I realize. "Help you make something of your career. Get you taken seriously."

She nods now, and her persona changes again, this time to one of tired resignation and almost shame. "You and your team obviously know stuff. I don't care how much pressure the IAA puts on my supervisor, you're up to something."

"So it's blackmail. We help you or you'll keep on our a$$es until you know what's going on."

"I could just kill you all for vengeance," she says, but there's no feeling in it. As much as she might want to, she knows as well as I do she couldn't bring herself to go through with it.

"Alright, look," I say. I don't want this woman keeping tabs on us; It'll get her or all of us killed. "I'm sorry for what happened to your team. They got caught in the middle of something we're still trying to understand. But we're just as much about putting a stop to all the sh*t that goes on as you are. If we learn something you can use, we'll share the intel."

"Well, thank you, Sergeant Coleman," she replies, more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone, and then she walks away, untying the knot in her T-shirt while she pushes herself through the throng of people now rushing back towards the finish line as the noise of engines being pushed hard starts to grow in the night air.

I make my way over to the Elegy. The guy's still waiting by it but f*** him. There's a low wall nearby demarking the perimeter of the parking lot so I climb up that to see over the crowd. To my surprise, Soo-Jin's 190z is leading the pack by some margin, but the Tampa's on her and it's gaining. Something doesn't look right and as I watch on I realize what's happening – he's aiming right for her to try and pit-manoeuvre her.

Her tyres squeal and emit a thick plume of smoke right at the last second and her car pulls a 360-degree donut, sliding right out of the way of the Tampa. Realizing he's missed, McWhiteboy slams on the brakes, but he's already gone in too deep. The wheels lock up and he slides helplessly into the wall as Soo-Jin brings the 190z across the line, barely a fender's length ahead of the chasing pack.

The crowd erupts even before she's climbed out of the car and then she's celebrating with them. A couple of the driver's join in, celebrating with her, respecting her win. The others sulk and hang back, staring daggers from across the lot with stony faces. I'm hurrying towards her, sensing what's going to happen. McWhiteboy has climbed out of the Tampa, nose bloodied, eyes black and he's storming towards her. The crowd senses him and parts, letting him get to her and blocking my path, and before she can realize what's going on he punches her. "You cheating b*tch," he roars.

She pushes him back. "Get the f*** away from me, if your reactions aren't worth sh*t, that's on you!"

"You _arranged_ that Kuruma to slice us up," he screams. "That was the f*****g Khangpae and so are you, you g**k b*tch!"

He's pulling back to hit her again but now Soo-Jin's lost her sh*t and throat punches him. He drops to the ground clutching at his neck, immediately turning dark red in the face. He's flanked by some of the men with the high-end cars he'd been hanging out with earlier.

Meanwhile the guy that had been stood by my Elegy approaches Soo-Jin and as I watch, helpless from my vantage point, I'm surprised to see him hand her the winner's stake. She peels some off and hands it back to him and he tucks it into his suit pocket, and then there's an exchange of conversation that I can't hear.

The excitement over, the crowd disperses, some of them going back to party, some heading to their cars to drive home, wanting to get a head start getting out before the cops arrive. Plenty of them congratulate Soo-Jin on her way over to me.

I notice her making eye contact with Agent Vasquez across the lot as she approaches me. Over her shoulder, I see McWhiteboy climb to his feet and I'm worried that he's going to attack her again, but the guy from the Elegy stops him, says something quiet to him that makes his eyes widen and after that he's shaking as he hands over his pink slip

Soo-Jin peels off some more cash from her winning stack and hands it over to me. "Here. Twenty G's. That should keep you going."

"The Hell just happened," I ask her.

"Come on, let's get out of here," she replies quietly and makes her way back to the 190z. I climb into the Elegy and stick close to her tail as we split. The sound of sirens begins to wail as we peel off towards Vinewood.

We park up in the Ceasar's lot we'd landed on the night Soo-Jin and Cope had busted me out of FIB custody. The poignancy isn't lost on me. Soo-Jin leads me through a side-exit that brings us onto a walkway under the Little Seoul Tower and into the Snr. Buns fast food joint on the intersection of San Andreas and Calais Avenue.

We order a vast assortment of junk food and then Soo-Jin goes to the bathroom to clean up. "F***er gave me a black eye," she complains when she returns, sliding into the seat opposite me.

"Agent Vasquez seemed to be enjoying herself," I say.

Soo-Jin goes quiet, looks down at the table for a second. "Alright, so the other night at your Dad's place, we agreed we'd be cleaning the city up, didn't we," she asks when she looks back up at me. I nod so she goes on. "Vasquez approached me. She's p*ssed at what went down, but even more p*ssed that her colleagues might be corrupt. And she wants to earn herself some level of seniority so she can really do something about it." She stops, takes an angry bite from her burger and a matching sip from her soda. "She's one of the good ones. I like her."

"So tonight's little adventure served more of a purpose than earning some spending money."

"And a new car," she counters. "You saw that dude with the yellow Tempesta?"

"I couldn't miss him," I say. "He was making sure I didn't leave."

"Yeah, that b*st*rd's a vicious loan shark. Low level, considering, but he's in with some high level bad people. Vasquez wants to use him to get to them."

"If he's a loan shark, isn't Whitey into him now for the car?"

"Car and his stake in tonight's race. Plus interest," Soo-Jin confirms. "And they'd better fix it before they deliver it too." She doesn't seem overly concerned about Whitey's safety in the position she's put him in.

"What about Whitey?"

"What about him? Spoiled college brat who's gotten too used to being able to bully people. You won't have seen it, way he was dressed tonight, but he's got a giant Swastika tattooed across his chest. His Daddy's a rich a$$hole, but he's a rich _white supremacist_ a$$hole."

"Jesus. Okay, so we're multitasking."

She grins at that. "Damn right. Cleaning this place better than a _vacuum_."

"Oh, hey, I saved these for you," I say, pulling the underwear she'd discarded from the pocket of my denim jacket and handing them under the table to her.

A wide smile spreads across her face. "You don't really think I wear _those_ things do you? That was just _theatre_ , b*tch, I keep 'em in the glove box!"

I try Paige's line while I'm walking back to the car. She answers and she sounds typically unhappy to hear from me. I fill her in on events and the fact that the Terrorbyte's going in tomorrow and then ask if she can look into the two incidents that's gotten Cole's alliance worked up. She says she'll let me know as soon as she has any news on it.

I'm heading towards The Crown Jewels Motel, I'm only a couple of blocks out when my phone rings. I put it on speaker without checking the display and ask "hello?"

"Hi Winter," Dakota's voice comes. He sounds to be in pain and despondent.

"It's good to hear your voice," I assure him.

"Yours too," he replies. "I could use a favour if it's not too much to ask."

"Sure, anything!"

I hear him breath which could be a sigh or a laugh, I can't quite make it out. "It's not for me, per se. I have a friend called Peach. Dances at the Vanilla Unicorn and they need help."

I feel myself tensing. "What kind of help?"

"They couldn't tell me over the phone. I'd not ask, but I just can't help them at the moment and Peach, well…"

"Don't worry about it. I'm on my way."

So The Vanilla Unicorn turns out to be a sleazy bar where a mix of barely legal and overly ripe ladies gyrate themselves near-naked for a lousy tipping crowd of perverts that consider themselves gentlemen. I get a raised eyebrow from the doorman and he invites me to have fun as I walk in, and then I sit down at an empty table.

A few minutes later I'm approached by someone wearing a black blouse tied up so that it only just covers her chest and a black lace miniskirt with stockings and suspenders. "Shall we go somewhere more private, baby," she asks, and I realise the voice is a little too deep.

"Sure," I agree and stand up. The dancer takes my hand and leads me to a booth with a curtain over it which she closes around us.

"Have you ever seen Mount Rushmore," the dancer asks as she straddles my lap and start to dance.

"I know Dakota," I confirm. Abruptly the dancer who must be Peach stops, rubs her brow and breathes a sigh. "What's the matter," I ask as gently as I can. Too gently it seems as she emits a quiet sob.

"I'm so stupid," she starts, wiping her eyes. "Maintaining my… lifestyle… it's expensive. Money in here's okay but it ain't enough for the operation so I looked into a second job, some dudes setting up a nightclub in Vespucci Canals. Only it's a front for some nasty business that goes on downstairs."

"What sort of business," I ask.

"Nasty," she reiterates. "Thing is, now they know _I_ know, they own me. There's two guys outside watching me. Soon as I'm done here, they'll take me back there, and whatever they want me to do, _I can't say no_."

I sigh. "These people. I'm guessing they're heavy."

"Eastern Europeans. Heavy as they come," she wails.

"They're people trafficking, right?"

"People. Drugs. Weapons," she trembles.

"Alright. Wipe your eyes. Can't let 'em suspect anything," I tell her. She does, but she's not looking much better. "What if you left with me, now? Go out the back way?"

"I'd love to," Peach says. "But I have no safe place to go. These guys, they've got all my ID, they're in my apartment… Even if they can't get to me, they'll hurt my family…" She stops, tearing up again.

"Okay," I say, trying to reassure her, although there's no reassuring to be done. "Where is the place?"

"Just off Vitus Street, it's a converted warehouse," she sniffs. "Baby, I gotta go clean up. I need to end this and get to making some more money before they suspect something. Thank you," she adds, gratefully. "I would give you my number, but they took away my phone."

"Wait, don't I need to pay you," I ask.

"Oh… Silly me," she replies, distracted. I slip her a fifty which she tucks into her thigh band and then she draws back the curtain, steps down from off my lap and heads through a curtained door marked 'employees only'. I step out back onto the main floor of the club and immediately notice the two heavies eyeballing me. I decide to go and get a drink at the bar, and then when another dancer approaches me, I accept her offer of a private dance to keep up my cover. I tip the girl $100 and her eyes almost bulge out of her head in surprise.

The meatheads are still there after that, still eyeballing me, but I can't stand to be in this place a minute longer, so I head out to my car and call Agent Vasquez.

"Don't you ever sleep," she asks me.

"Does Los Santos," I argue back. "I've got a lead on something you might like. People trafficking operation in Vespucci."

"Tasty," she considers. "I assume you have hard evidence. If you didn't have hard evidence, you wouldn't be wasting my time with this, right?"

"Evidence is your job. I'm bringing you intel," I complain.

"Even if I _believed_ you were IAA, intelligence would be the last thing I'd expect from you," she sneers. Just when I'd thought we were friends.

"If you don't want it, there are others I could take it to," I snap.

"Alright," she says, her desperation giving itself away. "Alright. Get me something I can use and I'll take it from there."

F***.

I'm parked in the shadows of a dodgy car dealership so I can see the back door of the club without drawing attention to myself. It's a little after 2am that Peach exits and is none-too-gently escorted into a car by the meatheads watching her. I keep my distance as I tail them to their place, but I can't go in there tonight. I remember all too well how it went the last time I tried to intervene in a club. But I know where it is now. Tomorrow, I'll gather whoever's available and we'll roll in there with intent.

I'm woken at around 8:30 by an incoming call. I'd gone back to the Motel alone and slept, but I'd dreamed of being pinned down and forcibly stripped by endless bikers, cultists and gangsters, of dead FIB agents and redneck survivalists. Of my Dad throwing away my new clothes and saying offensive things about my hair while I stared through the hole he'd blown in his head.

I hear road noise before Cope's voice comes over. "Hi Winter, how you doing?"

That makes me sit up. "Cope. How are you?"

"Ah, I'm okay. Considering."

"Where are you," I ask him.

"Remember I told you I had another bug out location? I'm halfway towards there."

"What are you doing there," I wonder aloud, equally confused and disappointed that he's out of town. I could use him in my corner today.

"I need some time out. Don't worry, I'll be back tonight. Just the car's supposed to be an investment so I'm swapping it over before anything happens to it." There's a pause and I can sense some discomfort on his part.

"Cope?"

It's a few seconds before he comes back to me. "The Doctor said I need to take it easy. Otherwise I could lose function in my left hand."

I close my eyes and wish I hadn't. The image of him crucified, the sounds of him screaming as he forced his hand free of the nail to save us plays in my mind. When I open my eyes again I'm feeling slightly breathless, a heavy weight in my chest and a feeling of guilt low in my gut. "Alright. Just be careful. Call me when you're ready."

"Watch your back," he warns me. "I'll talk to you when I get back, okay?"

"Okay."

I get up to use the bathroom and to have a shower and gradually realize I have the low dull ache and tenderness that means I'll soon be starting my period. With all the pains and stiffness I'm already putting up with since I started with SecuroServ, this is something I could do without. Damn it, why can't I get a day off?

I spend longer than absolutely necessary enjoying the warm water in the shower and by the time I get out I've got a text from Eliza. 'Are you planning on coming home, ever?' So when I'm dressed, I call her back.

"Hi. What's up?"

"Most of your kitchen and your TV unit. And I've washed the clothes you left strewn around your bedroom," she says.

"Uh, thanks," I say uncomfortably.

"Paige called. She wants to meet here at noon. Think you can make it?"

I check the time. "I can make it," I confirm.

I stop off at a drugstore on the way to pick up some bits and pieces for dealing with the next week, and overstock on painkillers while I'm there. Then, I do something that I've kind of been putting off and pull up outside the Posonby's store Henry Wood had taken me to.

The woman is working at something with a pad and a pen behind the counter but she stops as soon as she sees me, sets it down. "Hello again my dear," she greets me, quietly but warmly and I can tell she's hiding her sorrow at what happened to Wood as she crosses the floor and takes hold of my hands.

"I meant to come sooner," I stumble, voice catching in my throat. She shakes her head.

"I'm sure you came as soon as you could."

We're quiet for a while after that before she breaks contact and asks me if I need anything. Maybe a suit for the ceremony which she explains is two days away. I buy a black skirt suit with white blouse and black tie, and also a couple of skirts to get me through the next week, a black pleated plaid one and an olive green pleated one. They're both shorter than I'd like, but longer than the shorts Dakota had helped me buy and longer than the dress he'd got me as well, so I go with it. Then, promising I'd see her at Wood's ceremony, we say goodbye and I carry on to the house at Sustancia Road.

I stop off at the gas station in La Mesa to brim the Elegy and arrive at Sustancia Road maybe a minute after Soo-Jin who's bought Shane Morris with her. He and Harvey are embracing as I enter. Soo-Jin offers me a fist bump and Morris greets me with a smiling "hey," before I get a more gentle embrace from Harvey which I reciprocate.

"Hey," Eliza greets from the kitchen. I go and join her.

"How are you," I ask.

"Tired," she replies. "In between putting this together, going over the data from the past few days and trying to find a new place to live I've not been able to sleep much."

"It looks great," I appraise. "Thank you." She shrugs. "Have you heard from Dakota?"

"Yeah. He says he's okay. Just needs another day or two."

I want to ask her more but then Paige arrives, bringing the weight of her bad mood with her. She's also carrying two plastic boxes with her laptop perched on top of them. We gather around the dining table that she's setting her laptop up on while she grunts greetings to Harvey, Eliza and myself. I spot Morris giving Soo-Jin a look and getting a shrug in response. "Who's this," she asks once she's gotten herself logged on to Harvey's wi-fi, looking at Morris.

"He's a friend of mine," Harvey cuts in. "He knows our _mutual_ friend," he adds, more quietly. I have no idea who he means, but it seems good enough for Paige. Morris introduces himself and the two shake hands.

"So who are we missing," Paige asks me.

"They need some time to recuperate," Soo-Jin tells her firmly, earning a resigned sigh.

"Alright, the good news is the truck's gone into the repair shop and the radar is installed and working. You sure we can trust this Gerhard guy?"

"Kevin Gerhard. I'm sure," Harvey says. He doesn't need to explain further.

"Good. He's apparently found a donor vehicle for the parts we need so it should only be a day to repair and spray black for us. When that's back, I'll be able to get all the gear online and give it a trial run. Oh, and I found these for you," Paige says and slides one of the boxes she'd carried in each to Soo-Jin and I. "Turns out Potter dumped your stuff in the Tongva valley. He turned the phones off, but they're running my software so I was able to track them quite easily," she explains as I peel the top off and reunite with my lost phone and service pistol. "Speaking of which, we're CI's for the Feds now," she pouts.

"Thanks to you getting me arrested," I retort. That puts her in her place.

"Alright. What do we know," she sighs.

"They got me through my dumb-a$$ cousins," Soo-Jin explains. "I've given them a loan shark with some _family_ ties. That should keep her sweet for a while."

"I got approached by a friend of Dakota's," I say. All eyes fall on me. "There's a place out in Vespucci Canals, supposed to be a club but apparently there's a lot more to it."

"How much more," Soo-Jin cuts in.

"Dakota's friend said they're trafficking people, guns and narcotics. Only Vasquez wants hard evidence before she'll do anything with it."

"What sort of hard evidence," Harvey asks. We all turn, somewhat surprised, towards him.

"You nearly got killed when you tried life on the wrong side of the law," Paige reminds him.

"She said there was people trafficking," he says back. "I might not be a cop anymore and you guys probably aren't going after them out of the goodness of your heart, but that sort of thing bothers me."

"It might be dangerous," I tell him.

He pulls a face. "I've been shot already, lived as a fugitive and survived a beating from Martin Madrazo. I'm not even 45 yet but I'm retired and I've got nothing better to do with myself."

"Alright," Paige sighs. "I can wire you up pretty good."

"I'll go with him," Morris volunteers. "I could do with some good drugs after the hospital food they've been forcing down me. What? I'll save some for your evidence," he protests as everyone glares at him.

"Did you find anything out on those two things I asked you about," I ask Paige, changing the subject.

"Cops think the thing in La Puerta was a gang hit. The Vagos were meeting with some guys with family connections for a drug deal. They think another gang got wind of it and shut it down to stop the Vagos getting too powerful, which would be consistent with the low-calibre cheap weapons they used. Nine-millimetre machine pistols mainly, of varying models. There's a number of unsolved drive-bys matching the ballistics, but the only forensic evidence they've got so far seems to tie to the bodies. The only thing out of place was a turquoise bandana, but it's apparently sterile, like it was only taken out of its sale wrapping when it was dropped at the scene."

"So the hit squad tried to frame the Aztecas," Harvey says. "Turquoise is their color."

"How do you know it's a frame job," I ask him.

"It's obvious. Gang bangers would leave all kinds of biological trace evidence behind, even if it was useless. Saliva, footprints, hairs. Oils. Sweat. The bandana would _definitely_ be loaded with things to keep the lab busy. Any banger with a record would be making sure they got it back from the scene before the cops arrived or they'd be picked up on an APB for sure. That one was planted," he explains and I've got to admit, I'm impressed.

"Is your girlfriend on the case," Paige asks Harvey, surprising me on two fronts; one, he actually has a girlfriend? I know he'd mentioned it, but I'd thought it was just a gentle brush off. Two, she's a _cop_?

"I don't know. She's not spoken to me for a week or so," he replies, trying to be matter-of-fact but I can tell he's bothered by it.

"What about the other thing," I press, taking attention back away from him. He discreetly gives me a wry half-smile in acknowledgement.

"Nothing. Another half-dozen or so unsolved shootings tied to the ballistics," Paige confirms. "No reports of the truck you mentioned or whatever it might have been carrying."

"F***," I curse, knowing none of the gangbangers making up Cole's alliance is going to like the lack of detail. Still, I log on to the bulletin board I'd given them the URL for and post the update.

Harvey rides with me in the Elegy as we head towards Vespucci. Paige has got him fitted with a pair of glasses that broadcast a live video and audio feed. She's also got a bug program installed on his phone, same with Morris who's riding with Soo-Jin ten minutes behind us.

"What's your interest in the two gang hits," he asks me.

"A friend of mine has a business deal but somebody keeps coming after his partners," I reply.

"Would that be your new biker boyfriend," he asks me. I turn in his direction ready to snap at him but he's grinning and I realize he's teasing me rather than judging.

"What, are you going to grass on me to your cop girlfriend," I smile back and he laughs.

"Now I know where you've been the past few nights."

"Yes, Dad." Damn, I immediately regret that crack. He looks away out of the window. "Sorry. I forgot."

"Oh, so you were listening," he comes back. He's smiling again, but it's a little less bright.

"I'm sorry for that too. You woke me up."

"It's alright," he sighs. "History. Y'know?"

"Yeah, I know about _that_ ," I agree. "So, you think you're ready for this?"

"I am as long as they don't start shooting at me. It's been too long since I've practised my marksmanship." He looks down at his outfit, a scruffy black suit and an old white shirt. "Do I look 'dirty-old-man' enough?"

I grin at him. "Maybe you should stare at my legs a little."

"I have been. You couldn't tell?"

"No, you're very subtle," I laugh. He laughs too, sort of.

We're there. I drop him off a block away and find somewhere to park the Elegy. I can hear his audio but only Paige can see the video feed. "Receiving good and clear," I hear her confirm in my earpiece. It's all on him now.

"Check out the queue, even this time of day," I hear him report. "I thought this place was a _night_ club."

"Not exactly a vibrant young, trendy crowd," Paige notes.

It's quiet then for a while, broken only by occasional "Okays," and "Thanks" as the doorman lets people inside. Then an accented female voice comes over. "Welcome honey, what's your flavour?"

"Botox," Paige mutters.

"Bourbon," Harvey says.

"Not what she meant," Paige complains.

"Uh, we only really have beer, champagne or vodka," the woman says, with some uncertainty. "Um, the bar's this way if you want to take a minute."

"Vodka. Why not. Matches the décor," Harvey jokes, but even without a visual I can tell it's lost on the hostess.

It's quiet for another minute or two, only the sound of Harvey ordering vodka from a bartender with a thicker accent. Then Paige complains "really, Harvey?"

"A nice a$$ is a nice a$$," he whispers.

"You know she's older than _you_ and she's had more work than an out of warranty Vapid."

"Figured out what you want yet," the hostess' voice comes over.

"Not quite," Harvey replies. "Don't get me wrong, these girls are pretty, but… Kind of…"

"You want 'special interest'," the hostess asks him, brightening slightly.

"Yeah," he sighs. "That's a good way of putting it."

"Wait here," she says. Once again the feed goes quiet and the noise of my anxiety deafens me.

Finally, Morris arrives. "Looks like the party's started without me," he notes dourly.

Meanwhile, it seems the hostess has returned. "Follow him."

Uh-oh, I don't like this. All I can hear is heavy footsteps. Meanwhile, from Morris' feed, I hear someone telling him "have fun," in a tone that sounds entirely like a warning.

"Hey baby," comes a female voice with a South-American accent.

"Hi," Morris greets, with muted enthusiasm. "What do I call you?"

"For the right money, you can call me anything you want," she teases. "You see anything you like?"

"Plenty. But I'm shopping for a little extra today."

"You want kinky?"

"No, I want something Columbian," I hear him saying quietly. "And I'm not talking about coffee."

"Take a seat," the woman instructs. The playfulness from her tone has gone.

Meanwhile, somebody with a heavy Eastern-European accent tells Harvey "In here." The long periods of quiet are doing nothing to calm my nerves.

"So you're the man who likes a little something something," a familiar voice cuts in, breaking the silence.

"Everybody likes something," Harvey says.

"Everybody does," he's replied with a sigh. "So how do you like it, sugar?"

"Presidential," Harvey says.

"What… what do you mean?"

"You know. Like Mount Rushmore. Like Dakota," Harvey whispers. "In Winter."

"You're…"

"Yes. You're Peach?"

"Yes."

"You're moving now," Peach trembles.

"No. Getting evidence," Harvey admits.

"Oh God, you're a cop?"

"Not for about six years," Harvey assures him and Peach breathes a sigh which sounds like relief.

"You need to make sure you get them all. Otherwise people could still get hurt."

"How many of 'em are there," Harvey asks.

"Lots. I don't know exactly, but they've got a lot of people trapped downstairs and they're forcing them to work. Some are immigrants. Some are being blackmailed. They're threatening to kidnap and put my sister to work here if I don't do what they say-"

"Hey. Come on. I know it's tough but you gotta keep it together," I hear Harvey gently coaxing him. "We're on it. We'll get them all, you have my word, but you can't let 'em see you crying."

"I know," Peach blubs. "I know. Just…"

"It's okay. I know," Harvey admits.

Upstairs, somebody approaches Morris. "This the guy?"

"That's him," the South American hostess says and I hear her clicking away.

"Gentlemen," Morris greets. "I like what you've done with the place. Very Cold War."

"Follow me," somebody demands. Again I hear nothing but footsteps going down stairs and then a heavy sounding door being slammed shut.

"The f*** are you," someone demands.

"Shane Morris," he admits. "Check me out. Ex-Air Force, ex-Merryweather." There's a loud slamming sound. "Fellas, come on, there's no need for this. I got shot. Now I just wanna get stoned," I hear Morris protesting. "Put my name in your computer, I've got a history of addiction!"

I hear the sounds of his clothing being forced upwards as they check out his claim. Then "Two grand."

"What? Guys, I'm just wanting personal use, even I can't do that much."

Somebody punches him. Sounds like a gut shot from the involuntary exhalation and accompanying grunt. "You saw that I just got _shot_ a$$hole," he wheezes.

"Two grand or you leave in trash sack," he's told.

"You don't want to get shot again," somebody else threatens, having far too much fun with it.

"Alright, how do I pay you?"

"Here."

After that there's just the sounds of clicking on a keyboard and a mouse. Silent minutes pass, nothing on either feed except background sounds which my imagination wants to fill in. And since my imagination is fuelled by the past few days that are bringing up things I thought I'd buried in Iraq, I can't wait to hear something definite.

Finally Peach says "you didn't touch your vodka."

"Have it if you want," Harvey says. "Or pour it down the sink."

A few moments later, somebody asks Harvey "You have good time?"

"Uh, yeah. Just what I was after."

Laughter follows as I hear him making his way back up and out and a few minutes after that, he's getting into the car with me. "I don't think Peach is going to be able to hold her composure for much longer," he warns me. But then I hold up a finger, because I'm getting more audio from Morris.

"That's all two grand gets? I should have gone to Sandy Shores," Morris complains.

"Forget them. Do that, _now_."

"What's it cut with?"

I hear the unmistakable clicking of a switchblade. "This is what we cut _you_ with."

"Fine." Then "holy _sh*t_!"

Laughter. "Like that, huh?"

"Credit where it's due, that's good."

"Good. We know your address now Shane Morris. We'll _deliver_."

"I can't get some for the road?"

"Go!"

"You think it's good enough to take to Vasquez," I ask when we've reviewed the footage at Sustancia Road.

"It will be when _I_ take it to her," Harvey tells us.

"Wait, what?"

"You've got other things to worry about. I'll deal with Vasquez. But for now I want to keep an eye on the place and get a handle on how many players we're looking at, as long as you don't need me for anything else?"

"The old cop in you coming out?"

"Cop or not, people are being used against their will. Anyway, I've got nothing better to do."

"This place has really struck a nerve with you," I realize aloud. I'm really starting to like Harvey, I'd had him pegged as a bit of a loser but it turns out he's full of surprises. Not least in how tender he'd been with Peach.

"I'll back you up as much as I can," Paige tells him. "If you can get images of the comings and goings, I'll see what I can do on identities."

"Thanks. Don't wait up, I'm probably gonna be gone for the night," he says.

"Be careful," I say.

"Yes, Mom," he teases, getting me back from earlier.

When he leaves, Eliza comes and joins us from the kitchen. I feel a little bit guilty about leaving her to make coffees and dinner, but she's taken to it naturally and she's actually really good at it. "I like him," she says when we hear Harvey's Glendale strike up and back out of the garage.

"He's a good guy," Morris cuts in from where he's sat on the sofa coming down from the coke he'd had to hit.

"What do you know about him," I ask.

"What do _you_ know," he counters, narrowing his eyes at me.

"Only what he's told me. Ex-cop, accused of ripping off a security truck, sort-of cleared his name."

"He didn't take the truck," Morris interrupts, matter-of-factly. Interesting…

"Uh, hit the bottle after his lady miscarried and their relationship ended," I finish.

"I met him on a job," Morris begins, with a sigh. "He wanted to clear his name, but he was also trying to find a lady he thought was in trouble, and to get the help he needed, he had to _do_ some things. We _all_ had to do this thing. Four of us. Me, him… _her_ … and another guy. So we get made right from the off and bullets are flying everywhere. Now this woman on the crew, she's like but angrier; you _do not_ mess with her. She's a God damn cyclone. Harvey, he didn't want to kill anyone. All his shots are to buy time.

"But then, right when we think the job's done – we've got what we came for and we're on our way _out_ , right? So the last guy on the crew, the guy we're absolutely all depending on to get us out of there and make sure the thing gets _done_. He pulls a gun on 'em. All day long, Harvey didn't kill nobody. Couple of limb shots here and there, but they all lived. But this guy, from way out, Harvey sees him plannin' on killin 'em and BAM!"

We jump as he emphasises "bam" slapping his fist into his palm.

"Kills that m*therf****r from _way_ out," Morris continues, enthusiastically. "Just with a nine-mil, one shot, one kill, know what I'm saying?" He sinks lower into the sofa, if such a thing was possible. "That's the last shot he fired."

"What kind of a job was it," I ask.

"The kind of job that's mind your own business," he comes back.

"Lester doesn't like cops," Paige says now, drawing everybody's attention to her. "But Harvey was somehow different. Lester pulled strings for him that he normally reserves for only a handful of other people. Of course, he got a cool little mobile data centre on the back of it that pulls data out of the air, made his operation the most prolific hackers in the state, but still. It was unusual, beyond any professional courtesy thing."

"Man, I need to go home," Morris complains, sitting forward and cradling his head in his hands. "I'm coming down like a m*therf****r and those f***s promised they'd be delivering me more snow."

"I'll drive him," Soo-Jin offers.

"When's Cope getting back into town," Paige asks.

"He said 'tonight'," I say, and Paige gives Soo-Jin a nod. Soo-Jin helps haul Morris off the couch and half-guides, half-carries him out to her car.

I help Eliza clean the dishes. She's still not heard from Dakota and she's angsty about going back to the Venetian Hotel on her own so I tell her she can have my bedroom as long as she needs it. When we're done, I step outside to the back yard and call Cole.

"I knew you'd call," he says, and I can tell he's teasing me.

"You got the update," I ask him.

"Yeah, thanks for that," he says but I can sense his unease.

"It didn't go down well."

"Of course it didn't. Still, we were able to tie together the unsolved's that the ballistics matched, which is more than we'd have had without your help. Someone's definitely screwing us over."

"I bet I'm still the top suspect," I say.

"Yeah…"

"Cole, do any of your people have involvement in a club out in Vespucci," I ask him.

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Because I got word the Feds are going to be shutting it down soon."

"Are you a Federal agent, Winter Coleman," he asks me.

"No. Long story. I'll tell you everything when I see you."

"Are you using me," he asks, suddenly suspicious.

"Only for your body. I swear. Can you come to the motel tonight?"

He takes a deep breath. "Sure," he finally agrees. "Can't wait to hear all about it," he adds, guardedly and hangs up.

At a little after twenty past eight in the evening, Cope calls to tell us he's entering the city limits and asks us where to meet. Soo-Jin and Eliza are watching some old Vinewood picture on the enormous flatscreen TV in the living room. Paige has been clicking away at her computer the whole time, occasionally making or receiving calls that have all sounded extremely coded. I'd sent Dakota a text to fill him in on what was happening with Peach, and Harvey hadn't come back yet. Half hour later, Cope arrives, pulling up outside in an extremely generic blue Albany Primo, although it has a pleasant V8 burble that suggests there's been some tweaking over the standard trim. He's tired and, to be fair, so are the rest of us. We fill him in on what we've been up to the past couple days and then Paige, Cope and I gradually head out. Soo-Jin stays behind with Eliza to watch the end of their movie. I get in the Elegy and drive back to the motel.

There's a knock on my door at just after 11. I check the view hole and let Cole in. "Do you ever wear anything different," I ask him, looking down at the same Lost MC-emblazoned leather vest, road-worn jeans and black leather boots he seems to be in permanently.

"Sometimes I wear a _white_ T-shirt," he protests, but he's missing his usual exuberance.

I invite him to sit down on the bed and, apart from mentioning any names, I tell him everything that's happened since the day I left the Army and found my dead's corpse. He listens intently the whole time and when I'm done, he wraps his arms around me and we hold on tight for a few minutes, but I can sense he's uneasy.

"Cole?"

He loosens his hug and then steps away a little. "If you're wanting to stop _all_ the sh*t in Los Santos, that puts us at odds."

"Maybe it offers you a way out," I suggest.

"I don't _want_ an out," he protests. "Joining the MC was the first thing I did in my life that was for myself."

"But you don't like the way things are going," I protest.

"I don't like the way everyone's screwing us over," he tells me. "It used to be simple, before that two bit nut job in Sandy Shores killed Klebitz and went after our business. Then whatever else is going on. Somebody's pouring gasoline on the fire that's already burning in the god damn firework factory!"

I want to argue with him further but we're interrupted by his phone ringing. I hear Robles complaining about something and asking where he is. Cole tells him he'll be over as quick as he can and ends the call. "I've gotta go," he tells me and I can see he's even more uncomfortable now.

"What's going on," I ask him, concerned.

"Trevor Philips – that two bit nut job I just told you about? He's found the corpses at his meth lab and he's _p*ssed_! The Lost are top of his list of suspects." He stops, swallows hard. "Oh man…"

"Cole, are you okay?"

"No," he admits, barely containing his anger which is clearly born from fear. "I left too much ballistic evidence behind! The Pres knows it was a .45 used at the lab, and everyone knows I carry a .45!"

"I can get you a clean .45," I say.

"I can't just rock up to a gunshop and buy a new piece! It'll be too new! And if I go to an underground dealer, they'll rat me out. They'll know-"

" _I'll_ get you a clean .45," I repeat, more firmly this time so that he stops and looks at me. Then I call Cope. He's wary, but agrees to bring the unused .45 from his cache in Morningwood and meet us in a half hour in the darkened parking lot of a 24/7 on Ineseno Road in Pacific Bluffs, just off the Great Ocean Highway north of Del Perro.

Cole's still edgy, making sure he keeps out of view of any CCTV that might be in the lot as rides us in and takes Cope's gun. I get off the bike and I'm wanting to give Cole a kiss and urge him to be careful, but he already _is_ being careful; he backs the Daemon out and rides away without saying a word to either of us.

Meanwhile, Cope and I go into the store where he buys snacks, beers and condoms. I browse the assortment of unfamiliar products, stuff my Dad had always kept me away from and decide to try a can of soda. The fizzy sugary sweetness overwhelms my throat, my tastebuds and my nose, so bad that I almost end up regurgitating it into Cope's Primo, making him laugh but also making him warn me sternly not to mess up his interior. From the first mouthful I'm pretty sure I can feel it actively rotting my teeth.

"Did Cole leave you his gun," Cope asks me.

"Of course," I say.

"You should get rid of it. If anybody finds it, he could wind up getting killed by his own club."

"You don't want it for a swap," I ask him, surprised.

"Hell no," he protests. "And you don't want to keep it either."

"What's the best way to dispose of a gun," I ask him, because I genuinely have no idea. It seems incredibly wasteful to my upbringing which was to salvage and use whatever you could find.

"The old fashioned way is to find some very deep water," he tells me. "Whatever you choose, you need to make sure it's not somewhere anyone's likely to go looking, nor somewhere you'd ordinarily go. And you need to make sure you leave no trace that you were ever there."

"Thanks for helping him," I say.

"I'm helping _you_ ," he points out.

"How do you trust me and not him," I ask.

"I've seen what you're made of," he says, then tilts his head thoughtfully. "Same with the Lost MC. I like your stuff better."

"Cole isn't the entire club," I argue in his defence, but it's not as firm as I'd hoped. I'm thinking back to what he'd said earlier about our plan to clean up Los Santos putting us at odds and how he didn't want to leave the club.

"Nobody is, until the club is all together," Cope says. "Then it becomes pretty hard for anybody to argue with."

Back at the motel, I sleep in until after 10. During the night I was plagued by more bad dreams, but then I finally blacked out as the sun started to rise. Then I get up and spend some time exercising by the pool, but it doesn't make me feel any better, physically or mentally. I can't swim today; the dull ache is intensifying, meaning I'm due to start bleeding either today or tomorrow, if my body's going to play ball this time. Just in case, I put on one of the skirts I'd bought yesterday. I decide on the olive green one, pair it with the white tank top. I'm planning on going out into the desert later on for some target practice. I know I can do it at Ammu-Nation but I can do it in the wilderness for free.

Briefly I consider lunch at Burger Shot, but immediately after walking in I walk back out nauseated. Instead I go to Giovanni's Italian and get a mozzarella and meatball sandwich cooked for me by two plump old guys that shout constantly at each other in a mix of English and Italian. I'm sitting in the sunshine eating it and considering going back in for ice cream – I feel I deserve to try ice cream, my father be damned – when Paige calls and tells me the Terrorbyte is done, asks me to get to the warehouse in La Mesa ASAP.

I've only just got back to the Elegy – not running today, more of a brisk walk – when Paige calls back to advise me the plan's changed and tells me to meet her in Rockford Hills instead. I program the co-ordinates into my phone and let it lead me to a back street. I get there a minute or so before the rest of the team arrives and hurriedly get changed into a N.O.O.S.E. uniform intended for a man, so it's slightly baggy, the armor not quite fitting right over my chest. Soo-Jin is in the back wearing the same, minus the helmet and face-covering balaclava which she's not put on yet. I'm guessing it's Cope dressed likewise at the wheel. Gerhard seems to have cleaned the inside up for us.

"You know what's easier than robbing a bank," Paige asks me, working at her computer station.

"Um… everything," I guess and she pulls a face at me.

"Robbing bank robbers. There's a two-eleven on the police scanner, so we're in business."

"Great," I moan without any enthusiasm whatsoever. "Where?"

"I'm in the traffic camera network, thanks to Cope's contact. Just give me a minute… there! Fleeca bank in Morningwood! Go!"

Cope hits the gas and the truck lurches into motion.

"I'll find us a client who can deactivate a dye pack," Paige tells us. "You guys swoop in and take the payday."

"There's no way we can outrun the cops in this thing," I complain.

"You won't have to," Paige assures us. "Just get us there before the heist crew comes out of the bank!"

"I'm moving this thing as fast as it'll go," Cope complains.

"I know, I know. Hang on, I'm trying to get on the interior cameras so we can see what we're up against."

"It's 'we' now," Soo-Jin mutters.

"Alright, I'm i-" Paige starts, ignoring the comment. "Oh, _sh*t_!"

"What," Cope demands.

"Don't get too close! There's a guy posted out front wrapped in ballistic armor with a minigun!" Now Paige clambers into the front of the truck to sit alongside Cope. "Pull it up there," she points, but then bullets slam against the bodywork of the truck and Cope's backing it up even before she can scream at him to do it.

"Didn't you have a weaponized drone," Cope asks her.

"It's only got a stun capability," she admits.

"Get us a soft spot, it'll have to do," Cope tells her. I'm wishing I still had the grenade launcher we'd used in the bunker. Nonetheless, Soo-Jin pulls on her balaclava and helmet, throws me a pistol and a carbine rifle, equips herself identically and kicks open the side door. The two of us run out to the cover of the storefront parallel to the bank, buying us some cover from our shooter. My hearing is methodically beaten by the heavy drumming of the minigun as it shreds through the police cars. Any cops left standing are running for their lives, but sirens are piercing the air from a distance; back-up is on the way.

Paige's drone whizzes overhead, but it soon catches the attention of the gunner who sprays the area trying to blast it out of the air. Soo-Jin and I are forced to crouch low to avoid getting caught by the wild sprays of bullets he's blasting in all directions.

"I can't find anywhere exposed enough to hit him," Paige complains over our headsets.

"That's fine, just keep him distracted," Soo-Jin calls back.

Staying low, we approach as low as we can and as fast as we dare. Paige is keeping his back to us, but I'm terrified that any second he's going to hear us coming behind him. "Damn it, where's the Insurgent when we need it," I quietly curse.

We're about fifty feet away from him now. Still we continue to approach. Thirty feet. He's wrapped head to toe in heavy armor, I can't see any opening good enough for getting a shot in! Twenty feet. The only way we can bring this guy down is with a cannon or an explosive and we don't have either. Just when I'm thinking how royally f****ed we are, it gets worse.

"Sh*t," Paige curses in our headsets, but we don't need to hear that to know he's managed to obliterate the drone, and now he's turning slowly back around, Soo-Jin and I are goners for sure…

The roar of an engines cuts through the piercing wail of sirens and finally N.O.O.S.E arrive on the scene, three trucks racing up that all immediately come under fire from the minigun. The distraction buys us time to run across the road and take cover behind the flaming shells of former police cars. They'll offer us no protection at all if he swings the minigun our way. We just want to stay out of sight.

Cope's now running towards us as the N.O.O.S.E agents desperately try to fight back. Using the same tactics Soo-Jin and I had used. Keeping low. Moving fast. By the time he joins us, the N.O.O.S.E. team is down to maybe half a dozen men, probably three more still alive but critically injured.

There's an APC smoking, not moving. The IED ripped out it's undercarriage and Kaeden Rune's corpse is on the far side of it, but we're pinned down in this ditch. Dakota's somewhere over there. Kaeden's face has been ruined by a high velocity sniper round. His chest armor is blown open in a crude flower. Overhead come the shouts of my unit as we try to get a handle on what happened to us and start to mobilise so we can try and get ourselves outta here.

Snipers fire rains on the ruined APC. It sounds so loud, so fast. It's on fire now. It hadn't been on fire before? Something behind me explodes. It's only a small explosion, but the snipers stop firing. Maybe Cole or Robles got them with a grenade?

My Dad's sitting dead with his .45 still in his hand inside the APC. Shot himself. Somehow it's my fault. Wood is dead and Shirazi is in the driver's seat. The truck explodes as I watch, Shirazi cooked alive and blown apart. When I look back, he's sat in the driver's seat. Turning the ignition.

 _Don't turn the key Shirazi_. He does and the truck explodes as I watch, Shirazi cooked alive and blown apart. Still, my unit are returning fire. I look over them and notice Cope's left arm is peppered with bullets and hanging limply as he clutches it with his right and I snap back to reality just as the shooter is knocked off balance by a second grenade.

"What the f*** is your problem," Soo-Jin screams at me as she tends to Cope, unfastening her uniform to rip open her T-shirt and make a crude tourniquet to stem the blood flow. I have a horrible burning low in my gut that's not due to my body's cycle. This is somehow my fault.

Only two of the N.O.O.S.E team are left alive. They've got the shooter toppled over and are rushing towards him to secure him when one of them is shot from inside the bank. Now I raise my carbine and return fire, finally making myself useful to neutralise the shooter in there. The last N.O.O.S.E agent sees my uniform and immediately trusts me as one of his colleagues. He's too shellshocked to take anything else in at the moment.

On the ground, the minigun shooter is trying to get himself back up. Fragments of shrapnel have managed to draw blood even through the heavy armor and now I'm able to bring out the switchblade and cut it open enough for the N.O.O.S.E agent to fire his weapon into, putting him down permanently. Through our goggles, we both make eye contact, but only for a second. There's another shooter in the bank, the bag man, and I'm showered with blood as he puts the N.O.O.S.E agent down. All I can do is swing left taking cover against the wall, out of the line of fire as another shotgun blast punches through the already damaged masonry, kicking dust and debris in all directions. My carbine's out of reach, so is the primary weapon of the dead N.O.O.S.E agent. The minigun is just in front of me. I'm seriously tempted, but there are still employees and hostages in the bank and I don't want to catch them in the thing's spray. I'm down to my nine-mil. I'm gonna have to make it count.

I get to my feet and launch myself into the bank, spitting rounds in the direction the shotgun blasts had come from. All of them miss and two more shotgun blasts ring out, the scatter-shot catching me in the back and the leg just as I'm throwing myself to the ground, instantly burning hot and making what had been a controlled dive become a clumsy drop. The bag man pulls on the trigger again but it clicks and nothing happens. I don't know if it's jammed or empty, neither does he, but he's running for the door now, he's out before I can struggle to bring the gun around. A gunshot from outside stops him in his tracks and Soo-Jin's already pulling the bag from his corpse by the time I've managed to stagger out, hoping I'm not leaving a trail of blood behind me.

Soo-Jin throws the bag and Cope into the back of a N.O.O.S.E truck, then pulls the corpse of the driver from the driver's seat. She's fired it up and it's moving before I'm able to get to it, smashing its way through the carnage to get away before anybody realizes the robbery has gone ahead regardless. For a moment I'm left there stranded, unsure what to do, but then an armored black sports sedan pulls up in front of me. The driver leans over and shoves the passenger door open, yells at me to get in so I do and he floors it, chasing after the escaping N.O.O.S.E truck.

The driver is saying something to me but I can't hear him. I'm feeling light-headed all of a sudden. My back is burning cold. I'm pretty sure the armor protected me, that any of the spray of buckshot that caught me likely only caused flesh wounds. But there's a lot of them. I look down and see the seat I'm sat on is already soiled with blood.

 _Stay conscious. Mind in the game, Soldier_ I snap at myself, but it's already too late.

I'd not been aware of passing out again, but I can hear voices as I come round. There's an IV drip stand with a tube feeding into a cannula in my hand. I decide not to pull it out because I barely have strength to stand, so I carry the stand with me, using it as a crutch as I bang and crash my way out of the room they had me in towards the sound of the voices.

"Hey, you shouldn't be up," a woman wearing a bloodstained white coat over jeans and a beige vest top tells me when she sees me. She's working on Cope who's sitting In a chair between her and a male assistant with a Latin-American appearance, a bottle of rum half-drank in his right hand. He regards me coolly, emotionlessly. No, I realize, not emotionless; he's angry.

Soo-Jin and Paige stand up to guide me back out of the room, back to the makeshift cot they'd laid me on to recover. "What happened," I ask them.

"You went to La la land," Soo-Jin tells me quietly, clearly trying to keep a lid on her anger. "Kept shouting orders to people who weren't there, yelling about snipers and insurgents."

"Oh, God," I sigh, realizing what must have happened. "Did I get Cope shot," I ask, dreading the answer.

She grimaces and her throat's tight as she tells me "he'll be alright." Oh, _sh*t_ …

"Where are we," I ask, desperately needing to change the subject.

"Dana McMahon's a combat medic I knew in Afghan," Soo-Jin replies flatly. "She runs this place for people like us now, her and Armindo there. She's not licensed but she knows what she's doing. You'll be alright."

"None of us will be alright if we don't get the take fenced," Paige complains, earning herself an angry glare from Soo-Jin. I look up at her and see she's drip-white. "Look, it's not gonna be long before they put it together that the money got taken, despite the heist crew all being dead. They're probably tracking us right now if they're not on to us already."

"Will you look around," Soo-Jin starts, angrily.

"She's right," I admit, interrupting. Soo-Jin shuts up and steps back in surprise as I turn my attention to Paige. "You said you had a buyer lined up?"

"Given the heat at the moment, he's postponed the meet," Paige tells us. "We've got a few hours before he resurfaces, and he's only going to give us a small window before he disappears again. You should get all the rest you can."

Paige and Soo-Jin leave us and for a long time I'm left alone. Eventually McMahon comes in, replaces my empty drip bag and gently peels away the bandages to check underneath. "You lost a lot of blood," she warns me. "Looks like you've been through a lot already, You really ought to rest up a few days.

"I'd love to. I don't have that luxury," I tell her. "How's Cope?"

"He's suffered a lot of damage to his left arm," she explains. "Armindo's good and he's doing his best, but it's 50/50 right now if we're gonna be able to save it."

Here come the tears. This is my fault, and I cry uncontrollably. For a minute or so, McMahon tries to be supportive, but clearly she's uncomfortable. "I'd better get back to work," she says when I'm unable to pull myself together and hurriedly slips from the room. I curl up and continue to sob until at some point I pass out.

It's dark when I come around. It takes me a few seconds to recall where I am, and then I realize Cope is sat next to me. His arm is heavily bandaged. He stirs when he hears me struggling to sit up. "Hey," he greets me softly.

"Cope, I'm so sorry," I gush, can't help it.

He shrugs. "What's done is done. All we can do now is try and move forwards." He struggles to turn himself in his seat so that we're both facing each other. "How long have you been experiencing symptoms?"

I try and cast my mind back over the past few days. "The first time was when we got attacked at Eliza's place," I sigh, although really I guess it had started off as uneasy paranoia the night Inquisitor massacred The Lost clubhouse.

Cope nods slowly as he takes it in. "And Dakota is suffering too?"

"He has been ever since his brother was killed," I nod.

Cope glances briefly at his arm. "We're a therapist's wet dream," he jokes and I laugh weakly.

"Are you gonna be alright," I ask him, voice shaking.

"It'll take more than this to kill me," he assures me.

"But you're arm…"

"Too early to tell," he admits, his mask of bravado slipping slightly. "They've packaged it up pretty good, so I can't move it. Told me I need to rest it. Guess I'm gonna need some time off when this is done."

"You have to sit this one out," I urge him but he shakes his head.

"We're down on bodies as it is," he says. "Let's finish what we've started."

The buyer is waiting at the location next to a black Bravado Rumpo, all the way South of La Mesa on Orchardville Avenue in an industrial area of the city that's left to factories and warehouses. Paige's driver left us the armored sports sedan and Paige carefully cruises around the area looking out for any signs of an ambush. It's 3:20 in the morning and the place is seemingly deserted but there are plenty of dark shadows for somebody to be hiding in. Finally, seeing nothing, she pulls into the designated lot.

She and Cope get out of the car. Soo-Jin and I are watching from elevated positions either side of the lot. I'd liked to have had a scope rifle, but the Shrewsbury Assault Rifle is going to have to do. While Cope remains partially in cover of the open door, Paige carries the bag to the area in the middle of the two vehicles and sets it down. The buyer approaches when she steps back and sets to work with a handheld computer that contains a transponder programmed to disable the dye packs inside. "What was the score," he asks.

"Exactly what I told you in the first place," Paige snaps back.

"Alright, cool, cool," the buyer assures her, bending over to unzip the bag, fish the dye packs out and discard them, check for any tracking devices. Finally satisfied, he zips it up and walks around to the back of the Rumpo with it. "We'll wire you the payment as soon as we get the take to our safe house."

"That wasn't the deal," Paige complains. Meanwhile, movement off to their right catches my eye. Something in the shadows. Cope's spotted it too and pulls the car door to himself, steeling his grip on the gun in his good hand.

" _You_ changed the deal," the buyer says, drawing a pistol from behind his back. "You changed it when you ripped off my heist crew, then when you tried to sell _my_ score back to me at _twice_ the cost. And you're not with any of your normal people, so I'm guessing this _isn't_ one of Mr Crest's operations. I don't think he'd like that if he found out, would he?"

"I _run_ things for Crest," she complains, but there's a hesitancy in her voice.

"Well, it's a simple choice you have. We do it my way, I pay you what I deem fit and Mr Crest never needs to find out you're trying to use his contacts behind his back. Or," he adds and raises his weapon to point it at her.

From across the lot, I hear Soo-Jin's weapon spitting out a round. Paige drops to the deck and hurries back to the car. Cope meanwhile puts a bullet in the buyer's head before he can shoot Paige in the back. Meanwhile, I light up towards the shadow where I'd seen movement. I see an arm clutching a submachine gun hit the floor, harmlessly firing a couple of shots into the distance. At least, I hope it's harmless.

A burst of fire ricochets from the railing I'm crouched by, forcing me to the deck. From below I can hear Soo-Jin also taking and returning fire. Paige is now safely shut into the car, but Cope is crouched down on the far side of it searching out targets with his pistol. More bullets ricochet off the railing, giving me an idea of where they're coming from and when it stops I pop up and fire two bursts back in that general direction.

I don't hit anything, but I light it up sufficiently enough for Cope who fires twice and puts his target down. Soo-Jin fires a couple more bursts and then silence falls across the yard. Nothing happens for thirty seconds so I begin to climb back down to the ground, carefully sweep around the yard over the barrel of the Shrewsbury as I make my way back towards the Rumpo to grab the bag. Soo-Jin's halfway over to us when two large SUV's pull in behind us and we start to take heavy automatic fire from the smartly-dressed heavies that get out of them.

"Get in the car," Cope yells to us. Easier said than done. I'm pinned behind the Rumpo as it gets turned into a cheese grater, and Soo-Jin is taking cover behind a semi trailer with thirty feet of open space between her and the vehicles. Their firepower is far too overwhelming to enable either of us to shoot back. I'm hoping there'll be a break in the onslaught, but the guys are smart; they're alternating firing and reloading between them. Now they turn their attention to the sedan. It's well armored, but it can only stand up to that level of punishment for so long. Paige steps on the gas and swings it around so that Soo-Jin can spring out and dive into the rear door, and then she aims it directly for the group of shooters. They all manage to scramble out of the way, some of them continuing to fire at is as it roars between them and out onto the road. Now they're running back to their SUV's, intent on giving chase.

Finally it's my turn. Watching the sedan peel out, they've all got their backs to me. I'm able to kill two of them before they even know I'm there, but then I'm forced back behind the Rumpo. One of the SUV's is moving already. Three guys are staying behind to deal with me. Again they're co-ordinating their fire to keep me pinned but they're fanning out around the yard, coming to try and flank me. The Rumpo's constantly moving under the onslaught as it's tyres are shredded, glass and metal is thrown everywhere. It's becoming less and less a safe place to hide.

One of them makes the mistake of coming around too far and I put him down before he can take me. That gives me a little bit of respite towards the driver's side of the vehicle, but now they have a bead on where I am. I'm not gonna be able to get another shot in. "F***," I cry as once again Iraq and Jefferies' office and the parking lot underneath it fight with reality to put me in a different setting.

We're in the middle of nowhere, but sirens start to sound in the distance. Briefly I consider trying to hang on before the cops come, but that's not going to be possible. There's a flash of orange and I realise the Rumpo's on fire. I have no idea how long it's gonna be before it blows, but I need to get out of here.

The firing has stopped now. The f****rs are waiting for me to step out of my hiding place. Some choice, stay here and get blown up, or try and get away and get shot. It's definitely gonna blow before the cops reach us.

A noise surprises me from behind; the armored sedan comes roaring back into the lot, drawing cries of surprise and gunfire from the two killers. Paige slams the car into the first one and there's a series of sickening thuds that seem to all come at the same time as his legs are pulverised, his skull fractures on the hood and his neck breaks before he hits the ground, never to get back up. While the other one is preoccupied with firing at it, trying to stop it, finally I'm able to come out of cover and blow a couple of holes through his head, then I run as fast as I can to the car and clamber into the back seat. Paige floors the gas pedal before I've even touched down.

"Tell me you got the bag," Paige asks and suddenly I remember I'd been carrying it the whole time. Taking it off lifts a weight, literally and psychologically and then the tears come flooding uncontrollably again.

It's only later I wonder whether they'd have come back for me if I'd not been the one carrying the score. Right now, we're peeling out of the industrial maze south of La Mesa at a rapid rate heading North-West. We past the flaming wreckage of the other SUV. "Jesus, what did you do to it," I cry.

"We let them chase us past a proximity mine we set earlier," Soo-Jin grins.

The rest of the ride stretches out to infinity as I sit there numb, barely registering where we're going or the turning of night to morning as dawn breaks over the city. At 4:53am, we pull into the parking lot of Rob's Liquor Store off the Great Ocean Highway, between Banham Canyon and Pacific Bluffs. I'm feeling dazed and desperate for fresh air as I stagger unsteadily out of the car. I can see the ocean from here, but there's six lanes of traffic and Ineseno Road, where I'd last seen Paxton Cole, separating us from the beach.

In the parking lot is a muscular man with dark hair shaved short wearing well-fitted jeans with an expensive shirt and waistcoat, leaning against a white Lampadati Felon GT, a luxurious British convertible. He's eying us with suspicion as Paige and Soo-Jin approach him.

"Watch the roads," Cope says to me gently before carrying the bag after them in his good hand. The guy takes it from him, asks whether the dye packs have been dealt with. When Paige assures him they have, he rifles through it, thoughtfully. While he's doing that, I watch a bright Benefactor Dubsta roll by, slower than the few cars that have been whizzing past already, such a bright silver I'm not sure it isn't pure chrome. Could be nothing.

"Alright," the guy says eventually, sets the bag into the passenger seat of his Lampadati and takes out a cellphone. Paige produces her tablet and logs on. Everything is quiet for a few minutes. The Dubsta cruises past in the opposite direction. Still rolling slow. I try and get the license plate, but I'm not with it enough to get it all.

"Alright," I hear Paige say behind me. I turn around to see them all heading back to the sedan and Cope indicates that I should get in too. The guy gives me a smile from where he's still leaning against the Lampadati as I make my way towards it.

As we head back South down the Great Ocean Highway, I turn back in my seat. The Dubsta slows to allow the Felon out into traffic. Could be something, but both vehicles turn off towards Morningwood as we continue South to Del Perro.

"Hey," Cope says, bringing my attention back to the inside of the car. I realize suddenly the dark mood has lifted. Even Paige seems in high spirits.

"What happened," I ask.

"The take from the bank was four and a half million, give or take," Paige says. "At fifty cents on the dollar, we have a five way split of two and a quarter."

"What," I breathe, unable to believe what I'm hearing.

"I'll split the money from inside the Terrorbyte," Paige tells us. "But this is a payday, people."

I'm too tired to do the math, but split between us it's $450,000 each. Good news, but as ever, there's bad news with it. Paige is having to lie low for a while so that Lester Crest, her employer, doesn't get wind of her having anything to do with the death of one of his fences. Her promise of making lucrative returns over the two weeks we had are going to fall flat.

At Sustancia Road, we telephone Dakota to share the news. It's good to hear his voice, and the score seems to be helping his mental state.

"Now I just need to work out how we're going to make the rest of the million we need," I complain over beers in the backyard later. Cope and Soo-Jin have a barbecue going and Eliza bought food from a nearby store. We've extended an invitation to Dakota, but none of us is surprised that he doesn't show.

"Whaddya mean," Soo-Jin asks, and everybody stops to look at me.

"Look, what we all put in to the Terrorbyte, we're barely paid back for that," I say. "But even if Cope and I put both our shares together, that's still a hundred grand short."

"Well, we need to put it to Dakota," Soo-Jin says. "But Cope and I were talking about if we took two hundred each and left the rest in. That's your even million right there."

"What," I gasp. "But… You can't… I couldn't…"

"Call it an equal partnership," Cope interrupts. "All of us put in, all of us share the rewards. And the risks."

"I told you I wanted a return on my investment. This looks like it to me," Soo-Jin adds. "And we get to keep Eliza," she grins, getting her in a headlock and gently rubbing her head. Eliza's laughing, but she's clearly relieved when Soo-Jin lets her go. We catch each other's eye for a second, then she looks away.

Later on, after I've showered in my own bathroom and I'm lying on my bed in olive shorts and a black vest top, Cope knocks on my door. I invite him in and indicate that he can sit on the end of my bed.

"How's the arm," I ask.

"I've booked a consultation at the Eclipse Medical Centre, now I have some extra funds in my checking account. It's in a couple of days," he says. "How are you?"

"Honestly?" He nods, looking at me with genuine concern. "I don't know," I admit.

He reaches into a back pocket of his jeans and hands me a folded flyer, counselling for veterans by veterans. "I think you have PTSD," he says to me. "I might be way off, but that's what it looks like. Either way, I think you should talk to somebody. You _and_ Dakota. Probably Eliza as well," he adds quietly, glancing through the door to where she's sat on the sofa with Soo-Jin watching another old Vinewood movie.

"How long was Jefferies abusive with her," I ask him quietly.

"Well, you saw how quick he could fly off the handle. We all used to just laugh at him, but Eliza had to sit in the office while he raged and threw things around. He'd never hit her before the other day though, not that we know of."

"That's still quite a lot for her to deal with, I mean she's what? Twenty?"

"Twenty three," Cope confirms.

Jesus. Barely three years younger than me, but the chasm couldn't seem wider. I guess war does that to a person.

I'm tucking the flyer into a pocket in my shorts when my cellphone rings. I put it on speaker when I see Vasquez's name on the caller ID.

"Your friends Harvey and Ericsson make a very persuasive case," she says. Cope shoots a look at me, wondering the same thing I am; _who's Ericsson?_ "If not for their histories, they'd be candidates for the Bureau."

"So you're moving on the club," I ask, hopefully.

Soo-Jin moves over to join us in the bedroom doorway. Behind her, Eliza's paused the movie and she's turned herself towards us on the sofa to listen in too.

"I've run it past my supervisor, but he wants someone in there with a wire. We want to catch something as it's happening before we go in."

"And you want to send us back in there," I realize, hopes fading to disappointment.

"Bingo."

"Your supervisor knows not to grab us when they raid the place," Soo-Jin demands.

"Just make sure you keep your noses clean. Don't have your hands on anything questionable when we go in and you'll be fine."

"Our warning was that not all the players are at the club at the same time," I say. "Are you sure you've accounted for everybody?"

"Leave the operations side of things to the professionals," Vasquez snaps. "Just get me intel we can use."

As soon as she hangs up on us, I dial Harvey.

"I don't trust your Fed," he says.

"Me neither. She's wanting to move on the club but I'm not convinced she's going to properly mop up."

"That's what _we're_ worried about," he confirms. "We've traced two of them to an apartment building on Spanish Avenue and San Vitus, but there's at least two more in play."

"Who's 'we'," Cope asks.

"Morris, Ericsson and me," Harvey comes back. There's a brief pause before he fills in the silence. "Ericsson used to be my partner when we were detectives."

"Okay. Fill us in on what you know about the other two," I tell him.

An hour later, Soo-Jin is moving to lure one of the club's managers into the place before our sting op. Harvey, along with Ericsson and Morris, are watching the Royale apartments in West Vinewood getting ready to take down the guys in there when they surface.

Meanwhile, Cope, wearing a tracksuit that would have been gaudy even in 1980's Vice City is driving me, dressed in a manor I'm sure Cole would enjoy, to a meeting with the other one that Harvey's told us we can find in a sleazy bar and nightclub called The Lust Resort in Vinewood, right across the street from Tequi-la-la. The tiny skirt and spaghetti-strapped camisole crop-top leave enough of my midriff revealed that my healing injuries are visible. I'm hoping my stoned act is convincing enough to explain why I'm struggling to walk in Eliza's strappy high heeled silver sandals. Cope's leading the way and I'm trailing behind him, trying to appear docile, obedient.

We find our mark, a 6 foot 2 Eastern European brick sh*thouse by the name of Albin Kucharski in a private booth, sitting opposite a white dude with a shaved head, unkempt beard and a dishevelled suit that was probably tan but has turned a nicotine yellow and flanked by three half-naked women of varying ethnicities. He gives Cope a look of extreme distaste as we approach. The suit makes to leave, but Kucharski holds out an arm to him to order him to stay put. The women stay where they are, and it becomes quickly apparent that they will do so unless specifically ordered otherwise. Seeing them takes me back to that first night in Los Santos when Inquisitor had took me to Legion Square to see the pr*stitutes out there.

"Is there a reason you're polluting my oxygen," Kucharski snaps at Cope, with a thick-accented voice so powerful he can be heard clearly over the cheesy music for the club's dancers to striptease to.

"I, uh, I heard you might be buying," Cope stammers convincingly. Kucharski continues to stare hard at him until he goes on. "I, uh, I need to get out of the game a while," he says, holding up his bandaged arm. "But, you see, my girl _Krystal_ still has an expensive habit…"

"So drown her somewhere," Kucharski retorts and laughs vulgarly. Pounds the table and stares at the suit for him to laugh too, and the women join in nervously until he turns his head to them. "Maybe I could send you b*tches with him, huh?"

"She's, uh, she's a good earner," Cope goes on, pleadingly. "Y'know, when she's motivated…"

"Krystal, huh," Kucharski says, getting serious now. He looks to me. "Turn around, lemme see the goods. Hoist that top up." I do as he says, raising the T-shirt to completely expose my midriff, feeling uncomfortable and cheapened. I'm hoping my angry flush can be easily mistaken for humiliation. His laugh proves me right. "Shame she got no t*ts," he complains.

"You could fix that, though, right," Cope says, making his voice shake. Damn, he's good.

Kucharski stands up now. He's a big guy sat down, but now he imposes menacingly. "Leave her here. You can go now."

"Wait, wait a minute," Cope stammers. "I need, I need some cash, get me through."

"You expect me to _pay you_ to take your flat chested addict off your hands," Kucharski roars. Cope cowers away but then the guy laughs that damn laugh again and turns to the suit. "Timothy, do you want a free bl*w j*b?"

The white guy in the suit's eyes widen. "She's kind of banged up," he complains.

"Nonsense. Look, the face is fine. She's barely broken in!" He laughs again. Nobody joins him. "Alright, you follow me to my place. You too, Timothy. Krystal, you get my associate here off in under two minutes, I'll give you five hundred for it. She don't, you leave her with me and you don't ask questions."

I feel the time is right to make some sort of protest. "Baby," I start, putting a hand on Cope's good arm. He throws it off with a look of disgust.

"Get off me b*tch, you best not let me down, or _this_ the guy you'll gotta answer to." Cope's _too_ good at playing this role. Tears come quickly and he raises his good hand as if to strike me. "You stop that," he hisses, and our mark is laughing again. I struggle to pull myself together and let myself be half dragged by my forearm out of the place. Let Cope make a show of bundling me into his car.

"F***, I'm sorry," he gushes when we're on the move, following Kucharski's SUV and the nicotine-suited Timothy's dull saloon as we head our way West towards Del Perro Beach. Soon we'll be turning South, back to Vespucci and the club. At least, we _hope_ that's where he's taking us. "Are you okay?"

"I will be when I know this is done," I say. I'm steeling myself, but the whole act has shaken me. Again, I find myself thinking of the dead-eyed waifs that line countless streets after dark wearing nearly nothing.

I wish I could have a gun for this. Cope's wearing the wire, he's also got his .45 hidden under the tracksuit, but all I've got is the switchblade secreted under the tiny skirt that wearing with the flimsy panties from Soo-Jin's glovebox. I'm partially relieved and partially terrified when we are indeed led to the club. There's a few parked Graingers and Vapid saloons dotted around the streets on the approach. The Feds are obviously ready and waiting.

"Nearly there," Cope says quietly, his voice tight. "You ready?"

"Yeah," I lie. "At least I've got a good reminder of what we're doing, right?"

"Right," he agrees.

We park up in front of the place and Kucharski leads us in through a steel shutter door at the side of the building, away from the queuing people outside. Even after dark, it's not a typical clubber crowd. We find ourselves in a service entrance. There's a truck full of crates of alcohol waiting to be watered down one side, a staircase leading up to a corridor right ahead of us and to the left another corridor. Looks like there's a large storage area through there, but we stop at a freight elevator which Kucharski uses to take us down three levels below the surface. Looks like the place has at least two more sub-levels too.

It's extremely hot down here. Numerous small rooms have been set up and my hearing is assaulted by faked moans and raw animal grunts of s*xual pleasue, the air pungent with a mix of sweat and heavy incense. Kucharski unlocks a door at the end of one of the corridors and indicates for the nicotine-suited Timothy and I to step inside, but then he block's Cope's entry. "Wait here," he instructs and slams the door in his face. He locks it behind us, sealing me inside, then looks at me expectantly. "Well?"

Timothy has taken a seat at one side of the desk in there. Kucharski goes and seats himself at the other side, staring at me impatiently. Oh, God, am I actually going to have to…?

"How about a dance first," Timothy stammers, looking as uncomfortable as I feel. Kucharski raises an arm in his direction, ordering me to get on with it. Hesitantly I totter my way over to him, still struggling with the stupid shoes. Awkwardly, I clamber onto Timothy's lap and start trying to imitate the women I'd seen cavorting with my male colleagues on the base, writhing and gyrating my lower sections. Even with music, it wouldn't have been a good performance. Timothy's barely paying attention until he pushes me off and curses "oh, for f***'s sake!" I struggle to maintain my balance while he stands up and looks down at himself, and all of us realize what has just happened; My period has started, overwhelmed Soo-Jin's miniscule panties and deposited a dark red bloody mess on Timothy's pants. "This suit's dry-clean only," he complains.

Kucharski stands so fast and so enraged that his chair is thrown across the room behind him and with a speed belying his size grabs me by the throat and thrusts me into a wall.

"Hey, it's okay," Timothy protests, hurrying up behind us. "It's actually a bit of a kink-"

He doesn't get to finish. Kucharski knocks him unconscious with a vicious backhanded punch before slamming me against the wall again. I'm struggling for the switchblade, manage to get it out and slice his arm with it. He barely flinches, pulls back his other fist with a snarl, getting ready to punch me and that's when Cope shoots the door open.

"Let her go," he demands. Kucharski steps back and throws me aside so easily I may as well have been a rag doll. While I'm reeling from my collision with the floor, I hear another gunshot, but then the weapon clatters to the floor. More of the club's meatheads are coming for us while Kucharski pounds Cope, first in the face and then in the gut, but I'm realizing how quiet it's got. Before I can make sense of it, we hear the cry of "FIB, _freeze_!"

One of the meatheads, gun in hand, makes the mistake of turning towards the group of Feds sweeping through the corridor towards us he's put down before he can get halfway. The others drop their weapons and put their hands in the air.

Swiftly, the FIB sweeps in and secures the hostiles. They're in the process of arresting Cope and I when Timothy comes around with a groan. The sound of multiple weapons being pointed in his direction brings him sharply to his senses. "Whoa, whoa," he says with his hands in the air even as he sits on the floor. "Easy guys, I'm a Narc!"

"Show me some ID," a moustached Fed orders over the barrel of his submachine gun. Timothy wastes no time in complying.

"Fletcher, Vespucci Narcotics. These two are with me," he adds when the Feds have lowered their weapons and are helping him to his feet, so Cope and I are released and allowed to follow him out. All along the corridor, Federal Agents are pulling johns and working girls out of the rooms as we go, lining them up on their knees along one wall. Timothy keeps his badge up for all to see as we make our way to the concrete stairwell to climb back up to the main club. The music has stopped and more armed Feds are methodically cuffing the club's bosses, employees and patrons. A guy takes Timothy's badge from him. "What are _you_ doing here, Detective," he asks suspiciously, eying the bloodstains on his pants. I don't listen to the tale he starts spinning because Special Agent Vasquez has spotted us from across the floor and is making her way swiftly over.

"Are you okay," she asks me when she sees the blood on my legs.

"I could use a bathroom," I admit.

"This is an active crime scene," she complains, pulling a face, but then she softens and calls over a female colleague. "Agent Mathis will take you some place you can clean up."

"Come on," Mathis beckons and I follow her out and across the street to where they've commandeered an apartment to stake out the club and run their operation from. There's a bunch of workstations set up in the living room with FIB techs watching and listening to everything that's happening in the club.

Mathis guides me to the bathroom so I can strip off and start cleaning myself up in the shower. When I've shut off the water, she knocks on the door and hands me the pile of my own clothes and belongings from the trunk of Cope's car before leaving me in peace to finish up. Fortunately I'd packed the stuff I bought at the pharmacy earlier.

Six agents are wrestling Kucharski into the back of an armored prisoner transport van when Mathis leads me back across to the club. Vasquez and Cope meet us outside, and now they've been joined by Soo-Jin who's black eye has been made worse and she has cotton wool in one of her nostrils to stem the flow of blood.

"You hit the jackpot with this place," Vasquez tells us gratefully. "They've got trafficked people, a weed farm, a meth lab… Coke… Guns…"

"Did you get everyone involved," I interrupt firmly. The thought of there being more men like Kucharski out there, escaping getting caught, sends a chill down my spine.

"Assuming Harvey managed to identify them all," she confirms. "There's a team on the way to the Royale apartments right now to grab the three he's watching."

"So are we all good," Soo-Jin asks, her voice sounding funny from the injury to her nose.

"We've got a lot of hard evidence, but we could do with getting their books. Our tech guys are going through their equipment now. They're probably gonna take a while so you guys should go get some rest."

Amen to _that_.

I walked back to the Crown Jewels, it wasn't too far. Pick up some beers from the liquor store on the corner of San Andreas Avenue, and order a pizza to be delivered. I'm midway through my third bottle when there's a knock at the door and Cole stands there looking sullen and tired.

"Are you okay," I ask him as he limps stiffly in and wearily shuts the door behind himself.

"Yeah," he sighs, sitting down on the bed and struggling to pull off his leather vest and then his boots.

"Paxton?"

"I'm fine," he says, more affirmatively, although he exhales deeply as he stands up to take my waist in his hands. "Just tired. It's been a long day." He looks down at me then, gently fingers the bruises that are starting to darken on my neck. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah," I sigh. "Long day. I've got beer and pizza but I'm afraid _I'm_ off the menu for a few nights. I've, um…"

"It's okay, I know how biology works," he assures me quietly and sits back down on the bed with another deep sigh to open the lid of the pizza box and take a slice. I get him a beer and he thanks me, clinks his bottle against mine. He wraps an arm around me gently and places a kiss on my stomach. I try not to notice the bruising to his knuckles, or to the side of his neck which I can just see below the hem of his T-shirt.

"Did you manage to smooth things over with the MC," I ask as he sits back.

"Yeah. Thank you for helping me with that. You still have my old piece?"

"Yeah," I admit.

"We should probably get rid of that."

My car's still at Sustancia Road, so I ride pillion on his motorcycle. There's a branch of SubUrban open on the Prosperity Street Promenade where I bought a pale blue leather jacket, some knee-high leather boots and a pair of tights to wear with my skirt so I'm not too cold on the ride out, and he takes me to the cove at the top of Sustancia Road, where we'd come the other night. I can tell why he likes it. There's a serenity to the place, hidden away and remote, no people around, no sounds other than the waves gently rolling against the rocks. I'm taking it all in as he builds a small fire. I hand him his old .45, cleaned and wrapped in a cloth. He's wearing leather riding gloves and he removes the magazine to salvage the rounds left in the weapon in the fire's orange glow before he throws it hard and far out to sea. Then we sit down by the fire for a while, him sat behind me so I can lean back against him, wrapped in his arms. It's perfect, until it's spoiled by his phone.

"Get yo a$$ to Burton, now, cracka," I hear the permanent angry tone of the Balla from his alliance demanding, even though the phone's not on speaker and Cole's got it pressed to his ear, his head turned away from me.

"What's going on," Cole asks.

"Just get here," he's told and the call ends.


End file.
